


The Right Thing

by fictorium



Category: Devil Wears Prada (2006)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-06-22
Updated: 2011-07-30
Packaged: 2017-10-10 05:39:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 57,668
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/96194
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fictorium/pseuds/fictorium
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set after the movie!verse of DWP.  Andy is working at the Mirror and receives an unexpected phone call.  Miranda needs her, again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

  
****

  “Sometimes, the right thing is a luxury.”                                
\- Laura Roslin, Battlestar Galactica                               

Andy groaned as the blue glare from the night stand signaled yet another night of broken sleep. She’d become so attuned to this hopeless pattern of sleep deprivation in both her jobs since moving to New York that there was no need for ringtones or even vibrate – she sensed the illuminated screen even in her dreams by now.

Expecting another call from the Desk about a stabbing or some poor, now-deceased advertisement for gun control, it was all Andy could do to muster a ‘hello’ instead of a ‘what the hell do you want?’ She’d been rude to her nightshift colleagues more than once and it wasn’t worth the pointed glares when she made it back to type up her notes and form a story before the first deadline.

  
Had she bothered to check the display, Andy would have noticed that it wasn’t anyone calling her from the _Mirror_, but with her head still buried in the pillow, she waited impatiently for her caller to return her greeting.

  
“Hello? C’mon guys, don’t call me in the middle of the night and then not talk to me.”

  
So much for being nice to the Desk staff. Andy could hear the hubbub of the room on the other end of the line, even louder than usual and yet still no one spoke. In no mood to hang on for someone to pay attention, Andy reached for the glass of water by her bed, relieving the dryness of her mouth but doing nothing to quench her impatience.

  
“Okay, well thanks for the pointless call. I’m going back to sleep.”

  
The background noise dimmed at her words, as though someone had placed a hand over the receiver.

  
“Andréa?”

  
One word was enough to freeze the blood in Andy’s veins. Only one person pronounced her name in that affected way, and even the months without hearing it couldn’t remove its impact.

  
“Mi…Miranda?”

  
What the hell could she want after all this time? Had she decided at three in the morning to finish the job of wrecking Andy’s life? Or had she simply decided that almost a year without _Runway_ didn’t preclude Andy from still running an impossible errand or two? Hell, wouldn’t it be just like Miranda to ignore facts like that just for her own convenience?

  
“Andrea, get dressed and come to my townhouse as soon as you can. Call Roy and have him collect you, he’s already on his way downtown.”

  
As conversations went, it was typically Miranda. No details, no explanation, and no consideration of the other party at all, and of course a sneer at the mention of _downtown_, as though it was an insult to dispatch her car that far from the Upper East Side. Doing something she thought only happened in books, Andy pinched her thigh to make sure she wasn’t dreaming. This whole surreal conversation made her suddenly believe in the prospect of time travel, because it was something that should only have been happening in her previous life. With her mind racing, Andy began rattling silently through possible reasons for the call: head injuries, recreational drug use, and early onset Alzheimer’s were all contenders.

  
“Miranda, did you even mean to call me? What about your assistants?”

  
The sigh that came across the line was classic Miranda, a poisonous cloud that was as quiet as it was deadly.

  
“I don’t wish to discuss details, Andrea. Rest assured that I have good reason for calling you, and I’m mystified as to why you’re asking me these pointless questions instead of calling Roy to confirm your address. I can’t be expected to work out all the details myself.”

  
As she had so many times in the past, Miranda hung up without further explanation. Almost on autopilot, Andy kicked off the sheets and began scrabbling around on the floor for her recently discarded clothes. Pulling on her jeans she stopped, wondering why the hell she was still running around like Miranda had any actual power over her.

  
Whether from some dumb Pavlovian response or just morbid curiosity about Miranda’s apparent mental breakdown, Andy found herself brushing out her bed-mussed hair as she heard Roy’s deep voice on the other end of the phone. He would be there in fifteen minutes, giving Andy just enough time to jump in a quick shower and apply at least some basic makeup. No amount of seeing Miranda in trouble was worth the risk of showing up looking like yesterday’s trash.

  
Roy handed her a steaming cup of takeout coffee before opening the rear door of Miranda’s Mercedes, and Andy had to repress the urge to hug him. They’d exchanged a few texts over the past few months, mostly congratulatory ones from Roy whenever he saw her bylines in the _Mirror_ or Andy enquiring about his wife and kids. How such a nice guy could last so long working for the demonic Ms. Priestly Andy wasn’t sure, but she was definitely grateful to see an ally before her untimely reunion with her former boss.

  
Perhaps because Andy was still only hovering just above a coma level of consciousness, she hadn’t figured on there being a press scrum on the steps of the building. She thought of Paris for a moment, of watching Miranda evaporate into that melée of dark-suited reporters and thus ending their working relationship. Out of habit, she reached for her credentials, nestling in the outside pocket of her bag as ever. These days she didn’t alternate designer purses to match her outfits, she had one practical messenger bag that held everything a budding reporter might need and black went with everything, right?  Although she still didn't know why the hell she was even there, Andy knew better than to leave home without her laptop, notepads and dictaphone.

  
Roy didn’t stop in front of the townhouse, and Andy realized as she sank back against the leather seat that her press credentials were more likely to keep her out than get her in. Once again, knowing Miranda was the only thing opening a particular door, and Andy tried not to enjoy it as she hopped out of the car on the cross street, heading for the nondescript wooden door that Roy had pointed out.

  
She found herself in a narrow sort of alleyway that her inner compass determined ran along the rear of Miranda’s home. Sure enough, as she walked along she found herself by a wrought iron garden gate that she’d seen from the windows of the town house. Another familiar sight awaited her, in the form of an Elias-Clarke security guard Andy had never seen outside of the building before. She scrambled to remember his name as his face lit up in recognition.

  
“Andy! Wow, Emily said Miranda had sent for you, but nobody thought you would actually show.”

  
As his arms moved in a vague gesture of welcome, Andy caught the building pass that still hung around his neck. Brad Hawkes, that was it.

  
“Hey Brad, yeah, I was called and asked to come down. Any chance of a heads up about what the hell is going on?”

  
The young guy looked stricken, his broad jaw constricted with tension. She’d seen him wrestling troublemakers out of the lobby before, or discreetly lifting drunken executives bodily into their town cars when walking became an issue. But the mention of what Miranda wanted was enough to render him pale and panicked, definitely not a promising sign.

  
“She didn’t tell you?”

  
Andy shook her head in weary confirmation, indicating that Brad should continue.

  
“Apparently there’s some money stuff going on. FBI and some other suits were here a while ago, serving her with some papers. It uh, didn’t go down too well with her, so Emily says. Apparently they woke the kids and well, everybody knows you don’t mess with the Children of the Corn, right?”

  
Even as he tried to crack the joke, Brad looked nervously over his shoulder. Fear of Miranda became a habit, even in a man approximately three times her size.

  
“God knows why she wants me here, then. Maybe she ran out of assistants to torture, so she’s going through the old ones?”

  
He looked at her with something between surprise and revulsion – an expression she’d seen too often: from Nate, from Christian and even from her boss, John. Andy knew it was a backhanded compliment, to be considered far too pleasant to associate with the Dragon Lady of publishing, but honestly it just got tiresome after a while. Especially now that she didn’t get the pretty clothes and fabulous parties as consolation prizes.

  
Before Andy could attempt to arm herself with more advance information, she heard a familiar loud whisper cutting across the garden path.

  
“Andrea, honestly! You are invited to Miranda’s home and you waste time dallying out here? I see you haven’t learned any manners working at the _Enquirer_.”

  
Resigning herself to her mysterious but no doubt unpleasant fate, Andy shrugged in defeat and stepped past Brad into the path of the oncoming Emily. Being grabbed by the elbow was hardly a new experience, but Andy had forgotten quite how painful those bony fingers could be.

  
“It’s the _Mirror_, Em. And nice to see you too, by the way.”

  
Emily rolled her eyes in what appeared to be boredom, but Andy saw the smudges in the usually intricate make-up, the lack of lip gloss and the whiteness of Emily’s knuckles where she was gripping her Blackberry as though her life depended on it. Maybe it actually did, but it was hard to separate real problems from the constant high state of drama that Emily existed in. She fed on stress the way a normal person might snack on a power bar or two throughout the day.

  
She’d barely had time to get her balance before the surprisingly strong Emily dragged Andy towards the back door of the townhouse. The back door opened into a sort of patio area, and before Andy could look at the outdoor accessories arranged in the uncluttered space, Emily had propelled them both on into the kitchen itself. Somehow, Andy had almost managed to forget that someone as complicated as Miranda had something so completely pedestrian as a kitchen.

  
In that warm, oddly homey room, chaos reigned supreme. A handful of assistants, whether from _Runway_ or beyond, were chattering into cell phones while typing furiously on either laptops or secondary phones. Starbucks cups and half-empty glasses of water littered every available surface, and for a second Andy was reminded of her own office, a million miles from the sterile blankness of Elias-Clarke. Occasionally a more senior-looking person would pop into the room, causing a fresh flurry of activity as papers and messages were passed frantically back and forth.

  
In a weird way, it reminded Andy of that last, frantic night before a run-through. Only nobody seemed to be chatting about De La Renta or Prada tonight, instead she was catching snapped fragments about the SEC, stock options and a bunch of legal terms she sort of recognized but didn’t understand. Only when a tall, blonde woman approached Andy from across the kitchen, did Andy realize she’d been holding her breath.

  
The woman’s face was familiar, and when her eyes alighted on Andy recognition came rushing back: Stephanie Dahl, Miranda’s attorney. Andy felt Emily tense up at her side, before her hand dropped away allowing blood to flow through Andy’s arm once more.

  
“You must be Andréa?”

  
It was jarring to hear her name spoken that way by someone other than her ex-boss, but Andy nodded and offered her hand by way of greeting. . Almost out of habit, Andy scanned the soft charcoal fabric of what seemed to be an Armani suit, and noted the expensive looking necklace that hung from Stephanie’s throat. If she was dealing with a full-fledged Miranda crisis, the woman was certainly skilled in not letting the stress show.

  
“Stephanie Dahl, I’m sure we spoke on the phone during your sentence at _Runway_.”

  
Not wanting to be impolite, Andy refrained from mentioning the five or six times they’d met in person, including the charity gala when Stephanie had a martini or five too many and begun confiding in Andy about her impossible girlfriend and the horrors of being Miranda’s legal counsel. It seemed Miranda liked to issue lawsuits almost as much as pointed barbs about the appearance of others.

  
“Miranda’s waiting for you. Upstairs, if you would?”

  
Stephanie didn’t wait for an answer, though Andy did appreciate the appearance of being asked. It was more than she was used to from her time at _Runway_, when every tiny comment was to be interpreted as a new official Commandment. Grabbing at her purse, Andy scrambled to follow the older woman’s brisk strides.

  
It wasn’t Andy’s first time walking up those blue-carpeted stairs, but this time she was actually intending to see the woman who had haunted her nightmares for almost two years. It seemed absence had made the heart, if not fonder, then certainly hung up on the details. Andy could remember almost every little detail about her former boss, from the notes of her unique perfume to the flinty coldness of her eyes. Faced with the prospect of experiencing all that again, for real, Andy couldn’t decide whether to be excited or bolt for the nearest exit.

  
Miranda was perched on one of her antique sofas in a cozy little den, looking for all the world like she was simply waiting for the _sommelier_ to bring the wine list. Her legs were elegantly crossed, left over right, and her posture was ramrod-straight as ever. One Prada heel dangled from her toe, while the other had been discarded on the polished wooden floor. The black pants and flowing red blouse she was wearing didn’t have any visible creases in them, and but for the slightly rumpled quality of her hair and the fading sheen of make-up that had endured too many hours, Miranda Priestly didn’t look any different.

  
Her glasses were perched on her nose, though she seemed to have no interest in the document on her lap. Andy felt nervous in the way that she felt about animal cages at the zoo. Yes, those big metal bars would ostensibly protect her, but some nagging doubt in her mind had always suspected that even the tightest security could be breached. Only now it wasn’t mauling by a lion that she feared, but rather the chilling tongue-lashing of _Runway_’s editor-in-chief.

  
Realizing their presence, Miranda looked across quite deliberately, and it was all Andy could do not to gasp when their eyes fully made contact. Miranda’s gaze had lost none of its intensity, and although the carefully controlled rage was very apparent, Andy almost thought she could see a glimmer of something else behind it; something she had only seen on that strange night in Paris when Miranda had exposed a fragment of the human being behind the mask.

  
“Miranda?”

  
Andy was proud of herself for keeping her voice level. She still had no idea what the hell she was doing. She felt distinctly wobbly even in her sensible flats, and almost felt like blurting out they were from _Aldo_, just to see if Miranda’s head would actually explode. Her instinct for self-sabotage was alive and well, it seemed.

  
“Andréa, you’re here at last.”

  
Of course, 50 minutes after being summoned in the middle of the night would be too long for Miranda. Andy felt her shoulders begin to tense and she knew that she was one bitchy comment away from turning on her heel and letting Miranda get on with whatever insanity she was caught up in now.

  
“What do you want, Miranda? You can’t need me to get you anything, since I don’t work for you anymore.”

  
Pursing of the lips within a minute; that might actually be some kind of record. If Andy still cared, she’d ring half the designers in America and tell them how quickly she’d managed it. Might make some of them feel better the next time Miranda trashed their entire fall collection.

  
“I would have thought that much is obvious. I need to control the story, you’re a reporter with that rag… which is unfortunately where most people seem to get their news from. Is it too much to ask that you should connect the dots?”

  
Of course there was already a strategy in place, Andy thought with something between despair and admiration. Miranda hadn’t called her here out of any misplaced nostalgia or even on the basis that Andy was the best person for the job. No, she was the easiest to manipulate since Miranda still sent a chill down her spine and no rookie would turn down the chance of an exclusive with one of the most elusive people in publishing.

  
Part of Andy, the sane part who remembered to carry an umbrella in her purse every day and pay the bills on time, screamed silently for her to get the hell out of Dodge. Run far away from the spider-web of half-explanations and inferiority complexes that she had been so fortunate to escape from before. Her feet had no intention of complying, and she stood there dumbstruck as Miranda cast an appraising eye over Andy’s clothes. She must have been distracted, not to make some kind of comment about the non-designer items Andy had grabbed from the floor of her bedroom less than an hour ago.

  
Pulling her attention from her former assistant, Miranda turned her focus on Stephanie.

  
“I’ll want you and Jake to bring me those options in thirty minutes, not a minute later, understood?”

  
With a defeated nod, Stephanie was dismissed. Andy couldn’t help but notice the urgency in her steps as she went off to do Miranda’s bidding. Even the rich and powerful had a healthy fear of La Priestly.

  
It was beyond surreal to be seeing Miranda again like this, standing in the previously off-limits area of her home while pretending that it was perfectly normal to make a social call at almost three am. Andy began to wonder if she wasn’t still dreaming after all. Hell, the idea that someone had slipped a mickey in her last cup of coffee was better than this weirdness being reality.

  
Without waiting to be asked, Andy sank into the Victorian style armchair opposite Miranda. It looked like it cost a year of Andy’s college tuition and was about as comfortable as an Iron Maiden. She crossed her own legs automatically, mirroring Miranda’s pose unintentionally. With a quiet sigh, the reporter reached for her bag and retrieved her Dictaphone and notepad.

  
Miranda allowed Andy to set up before turning the full weight of a Priestly glare on her. Bewildered, Andy waited for the source of Miranda’s annoyance to become clear.

  
“You don’t actually think I want you to write this, do you?”

  
The laugh was about as genuine as Emily’s hair color, and Andy winced at the coldness of it.

  
“Why else would you call a journalist in to your home?”

  
Rolling her eyes, Miranda lifted the papers from her lap and thrust them half-heartedly into the gulf between the two women. After a long few seconds of hesitation, Andy took what she was being offered.

  
“I’ve written up the story as I want it to be told. It has been edited, so you should be able to file before the morning deadline.”

  
The anger that shot through Andy at Miranda’s remarks was as sudden as it was powerful, the sort of searing white heat that left her worried she might go blind. It was bad enough she had been treated worse than a pizza delivery guy, but now Miranda wanted to slap her in the face with the _one_ part of Andy’s life untainted by _Runway_.

  
“Miranda, I don’t mean to be impolite,” Andy paused as she heard the sweet malice in her own voice. The control was far more impressive than the quivering rage actually coursing through her. “But you can go fuck yourself.”

  
Well, that did it.

  
First, the pursing of the lips, then an almost casual tilting of the head: Miranda performed her executions by rote, the ritual as sacrosanct as her Starbuck’s order.

  
Then came the straightening of the already rigid posture, like a cobra rearing back before striking. Unconsciously, Andy braced for impact, hoping the venom wouldn’t be too unbearable.

  
Instead, Miranda laughed. This time a real laugh, one that almost made her sound human.

  
At that, Andy had to actually push her jaw with her fingertips in order to close her mouth. Miracles really did happen, though even in witnessing this one, she didn’t believe it. Still, better to focus on the strangeness of Miranda’s reaction than Andy’s own. A reaction that went something like _my God, Miranda is gorgeous when she smiles_. What kind of sleep-deprived wackiness had put that thought in her head, Andy wondered? Maybe she was the one cracking up.

  
“Well, Andréa, you can’t blame me for trying. If you could see the indignation on your face… well, anyway. To business -- after all, that’s why you’re here.”

  
Andy couldn’t help but feel that she’d dodged some kind of bullet. Whether it was the stress of the situation, or Miranda finally going round the bend, Andy was relieved to discover she wasn’t on the editor’s shit list for the time being.

  
“Okay, let’s start at the start then. That’s how I write my stories, Miranda.”

  
With a curt nod, Miranda couldn’t quite keep the impatience from her face.

  
“So, what exactly does the FBI want with you?”

  
Frowning at the directness of the question, Miranda slumped back against the silk-covered cushions with a sigh that seemed to emanate all the way from her toes.

  
“For that, we shall need something much stronger than coffee.”

  
Andy waited while Miranda poured two generous shots of Scotch from the decanter waiting on an end table. Andy took her glass and allowed herself a small sip before setting it down.

  
“The FBI, Miranda?”

  
And with that, Miranda began to tell the whole sorry tale.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Set after the movie!verse of DWP. Andy is working at the Mirror and receives an unexpected phone call. Miranda needs her, again. It seems Miranda has run into a little legal trouble, and who better to help get her side of the story out, right?

  
**Title: **The Right Thing (part 2/6)  
**Author: **[](http://lauriestein.livejournal.com/profile)[**lauriestein**](http://lauriestein.livejournal.com/)  
**Rating: **PG this part, NC17 eventually  
**Pairing**: Miranda/Andy  
**Word Count**: ~3900 (this chapter)  
**Disclaimer:** I don't own anything, these characters remain the property of Lauren Weisberger and 20th Century Fox. No profit is being made, and no harm is intended (except the fun kind!) This story borrows from real-life events in cases such as Martha Stewart's, but I promise to keep it light on boring corporate stuff as much as possible.

**Summary:** Set after the movie!verse of DWP. Andy is working at the Mirror and receives an unexpected phone call. Miranda needs her, again. It seems Miranda has run into a little legal trouble, and who better to help get her side of the story out, right?

With a million thanks to [](http://girlie-girl-23.livejournal.com/profile)[**girlie_girl_23**](http://girlie-girl-23.livejournal.com/)  and [](http://shesgottaread.livejournal.com/profile)[**shesgottaread**](http://shesgottaread.livejournal.com/)  for a sterling beta and first reader job :) Oh, and to archivers, I'm happy for it to go anywhere, just drop me a comment?

_   
**New Fic: The Right Thing (2/6), Miranda/Andy**   
_

**  
“I chose and my world was shaken; so what?                                          
The choice may have been mistaken, the choosing was not.”            **

\- Dot, Sunday in the Park with George.             


Twenty minutes later, Andy felt her old wrist strain flaring up. Not even the longest, dullest press conference for the Mirror had given her as much to write as Miranda in full-flow. Andy gave her scratched shorthand a quick check to make sure Miranda hadn’t slipped a ‘call Patrick’ or ‘collect my dry-cleaning’ in the midst of her almost hypnotic rant.

  
  
Throughout the torrent of words, the long fingers of Miranda’s left hand tapped against the crystal of her glass, though after the first sip of the amber liquid, not another drop passed her lips. The faint rattle of her rings against the glass caught Andy’s attention. How strange that a woman who changed her thousands of dollars’ worth of jewelry daily should neglect to remove her engagement and wedding rings. Andy winced at the thought of how much those two strips of platinum and diamonds had probably cost, and then remembered that Miranda’s divorce wasn’t finalized yet, although the end of the necessary year of separation must be fast approaching.

  
Her grasp of the specifics was remarkable, especially considering the hour and the hellish day that Miranda had clearly had. That steel-trap mind produced the names of the agents who served the subpoena, all the relevant players at the US Attorney’s Manhattan office, and a comprehensive list of exactly what they’d taken from her home and also her office at _Runway_. The thought of these philistines in their off-the-rack suits pawing through Miranda’s lair provoked a look of complete disgust on the editor’s face as she relayed it.

  
Of course, the diatribe also contained a few choice insults that showcased Miranda’s extensive vocabulary. Over time, Andy had gotten used to the cruelty of the words and begun to regard them as a twisted kind of poetry. Nobody else she’d ever known could craft an instant but decimating insult like Miranda; the diabolical _bons mots_ spewed forth with no more than a second of forethought. Andy wondered whether Miranda sat up every evening after checking The Book to compile a list of withering remarks that would reduce everyone from international designers to lowly assistants into trembling mounds of jello. The thought made her smile as she scanned her notes.

  
Ignoring the searing pain in her wrist tendons and the cramping in her thumb and index finger, Andy shook out her right hand and dared to look up at Miranda once more. The older woman seemed to have run out of steam for the moment, her usually vibrant eyes now dulled with exhaustion. The silence wasn’t uncomfortable, exactly; as on so many occasions in the past, Andy was simply glad to get a moment to think. She had so many questions, but given Miranda’s complete intolerance of them she knew she had to be efficient about it.

  
“How are the girls?”

  
Whether due to the compassion of the question, or just that Miranda hadn’t been thinking of her children in that moment, she looked surprised. The usual steely control of her facial expressions was on a split-second delay tonight, and Andy reasoned that nobody could appear that impassive under this kind of stress. She noticed too, that it was generally only on the subject of her daughters that Miranda let any vulnerability show.

  
“They’re worried, I think. All those people parading through the house and yelling their heads off, no wonder they were scared. Children seem to think their parents are invincible, so any sign of trouble throws them off-balance.”

  
Miranda finally allowed herself another slug of the Scotch, and it was no ladylike sip that time. Her knuckles whitened as she grasped at the crystal, and even though the glass was thick, Andy feared that Miranda would shatter it in her grip.

  
“I swore to myself that after Stephen I would keep our private life out of the papers. Now, here we are…”

  
Miranda didn’t need to finish her point, because Andy understood only too well. Being a necessary evil was wearing at times, and she’d faced that odd combination of openness and mistrust everywhere from local political rallies to crime scenes. People hated the press but couldn’t help turning to them when a story had to be told. Andy found herself adding to the mental article she’d been lazily  
compiling on the role of contemporary media, and had to force herself back to the task at hand.

  
“I guess I have to ask, Miranda: is there any truth to these allegations? Did you sell those shares because of insider information?”

  
It earned her exactly the kind of incredulous stare that had been the feature of so many of Andy’s nightmares. Like the dream where she had to confess to Miranda that it hadn’t been possible to find a singing octopus, or the time when Andy had woken up in a cold sweat, convinced that she’d missed the flight to Paris, when the entire trip had actually been months before.

  
“I don’t see how that’s relevant, Andréa.”

  
For lack of any better response, Andy laughed. It came out sounding strained, as though someone had a hand wrapped around her windpipe. The expression on Miranda’s face suggested she was having thoughts of doing exactly that.

  
“If you want the story, you’ll take what I give you and write it. I’d remind you that I have some very well-paid attorneys at my disposal if you get any silly ideas about libeling me.”

  
A deal with the devil, then.

  
The kind of Faustian bargain that Andy had always assumed she would never be drawn to. Could she seriously use Miranda’s predicament for some front-page exposure and not expect to pay her back for it? How long before Miranda started demanding an exoneration in print, or suggesting articles that would sway public opinion in her favor? And hell, would she even need this kind of favor if she had nothing to hide?

  
One central theme of Miranda’s working life had been getting the job done at all costs, and Andy had seen it first hand: the firings, the overspending, the ridiculous demands that broke both body and soul of staff and innocent bystanders alike. Miranda’s philosophy had claimed two marriages, countless jobs both inside and outside of Elias-Clarke, and more damage than Andy cared to measure besides. Was it really so unthinkable that Miranda Priestly would use an unfair advantage to losing part of her considerable fortune?

  
The protests were obvious, ready to fall from Andy’s lips: the tired old speeches from college about ethics and a responsibility to the truth. She’d seen already that real life didn’t quite live up to that – the manipulation of headlines for shock value, stories problematic to the owners being pushed twenty pages deep, or dropped. The choice was hers to make, and she had no doubt that Miranda had another contact or two somewhere in the media that she could manipulate if Andy ran off into the night with her integrity.

  
At least this way she actually got enough access to find out the real story, right? Andy realized she wasn’t even convincing herself, but that front-page byline was materializing in her thoughts even as she tried to fight it.

  
“I’ll write the story Miranda. But I will do my own research and I’m telling you now that I won’t hold back with what I find.”

  
Miranda shrugged, seemingly bored with their conversation already. A rap on the door signaled Stephanie’s return, and with it, Andy’s dismissal.

  
“You can work from the study downstairs if you need to, and Emily has some papers for you to look at.”

  
Nodding, Andy took her chance for escape.

  
“And Andréa?”

  
Andy looked back while trying to keep the panic from her face.

  
“Don’t…” The word hung in the air, the threat of it almost visible as Andy stood rooted to the spot. “Disappoint me.”

  
Andy fled towards the staircase. No way would she write anything inside Miranda’s personal fortress; if that ever got out her objectivity would be questioned. It would be hard enough to be taken seriously given her past with Miranda, but Andy knew she could sell it as insight that nobody else could provide. She was writing in her head as she descended the stairs, compiling opening statements and neutral adjectives as she almost walked straight into Emily, who was hovering as ever.

  
“Andrea. You’ll need these copies of the Justice Department papers. Try not to lose them. In here are the relevant pages from Miranda's correspondence with her broker.”

  
Wow, that level of openness Andy had not been expecting. Which either meant that Miranda hadn’t done anything wrong, or she was as arrogant as ever in assuming that Andy couldn’t outsmart her. Andy managed not to grab the papers from Emily’s ironfisted grip, and shoved them into her purse without looking.

  
“You can set up in the kitchen. Don’t make a mess, as you can see, far more important people than you have to work here tonight.”

  
Emily’s preening hadn’t reduced in the past year, Andy noted. Although this kind of thing made everyone’s life hell, she would bet all the money she owned that Emily was enjoying the elevated status. At this rate she’d never leave, never claim the prize of moving on with Miranda’s blessing that they all signed up for. She’d be gatekeeper to Miranda for the foreseeable future, even more so than usual. And there was nothing Emily enjoyed more than telling people ‘no’ while being pretty damn rude about it. Andy rolled her eyes at the thought; hopefully she wouldn’t need to deal too directly with Miranda after tonight. Fact-checking could be done by phone or email, after all.

  
“Thanks Emily, but I can’t write in this kind of chaos. There’s an all-night coffee shop a few minutes walk from here with Wi-Fi. I’ll be fine.”

  
That caused Emily to stop trotting toward the kitchen instantly.

  
“Miranda won’t like that,” she hissed, her eyes widening at Andy’s perceived stupidity.

  
Andy pretended to consider that for a moment before hauling her messenger bag back up on her shoulder and pushing past Emily toward the kitchen exit and her freedom.

  
“Miranda has bigger problems.”

  
She made it to the coffee shop in record time, though she didn’t recognize any of the staff from the frequent trips she used to make after dropping off The Book. It seemed nothing stayed the same, other than Miranda, other than Emily. Andy wondered, as she fired up her cranky laptop, what Nigel was doing these days. She hadn’t read anything about fashion since leaving Runway although she may have skimmed Runway’s letter from the editor once or twice, but only in extenuating circumstances like a doctor’s waiting room or a long spell in an airport.

  
She called the night editor and spoke quietly and clearly about the exclusive she’d have ready in thirty minutes. That was all the time left before the morning site update and a chance to make the last print run. Andy wasn’t worried, all she needed for this first piece was some background, a few juicy facts and a sentence or two that implied her knowledge went far beyond the bland statements issued by the US Attorney’s office. All their initial press releases, peppered with words like alleged and as few details as possible, made it sound as though Miranda was simply helping them find a few sheets of paper. No mention of the official subpoenas or gangs of agents swooping on Miranda’s home and office.

  
After ten minutes of skimming the official paperwork provided by Emily, Andy had placed her cooling latte back on the unsteady table and had her fingers poised over the keys. This was her last chance to back down, to let the scoop pass her by and keep the small amount of sanity that had returned to her life.

  
Sure, Nate had left for Boston and they’d never quite managed to patch things up, but in other ways her life was vastly improved since her tenure at Runway. Without Miranda and her impossible quests, Andy had been far more satisfied in her new job, where she made her own luck and was praised for getting things right. If Miranda was playing Andy for a fool, the younger woman knew it could blow her credibility once and for all. She’d be back in Ohio covering church notices before she knew what was happening.

  
Then she remembered the terrifying, heady rush of telling Miranda to go fuck herself; if Andy could do that once, she could do it again. If things got too compromising, there was no need to completely sell out. Andy could set the boundaries, negotiate the terms and still get a reward for her troubles. More than that, she felt that same pang of sympathy that had almost blown her away in a Paris hotel, in what seemed like a different lifetime.

  
She wanted to help Miranda, if she could. It was a ridiculous impulse, especially given that Miranda wouldn’t care one way or the other. But the same sense of having Miranda’s back had surfaced as soon as Andy had heard the allegations, and something on a gut level was saying that Miranda hadn’t done anything wrong. The woman might not be pleasant, but she wasn’t a cheat. And yes, for all the calmness and satisfaction of her new life, Andy couldn’t help finding it just a little boring at times. Miranda Priestly couldn’t be boring if she tried.

  
Of course, the fact remained that Miranda hadn’t been charged with anything yet. The subpoenas had simply determined the scope of the inquiry and the documents that had to be provided. If Miranda hadn’t dismissed the US Attorney’s requests for an interview (no doubt Emily had kept the calls successfully at bay) it might not even have come to this. However the company that Miranda had sold the shares in, an Elias-Clarke subsidiary, was being investigated by both Congress and the SEC. If these guys were coming after Miranda Priestly, chances are they thought they could make both criminal charges and a civil suit stick.

  
Skimming the finished article for the fourth time, Andy caught the last errant comma and sent it off over the creakingly slow Wi-Fi connection. Eventually the copy was sent, and she shut her laptop in relief. The clock was creeping up on five am, and Andy knew what she wanted her next call to be.

  
Gathering up the financial information she’d need for the bigger story, Andy ordered two coffees to go from the exhausted barista and set off in search of a cab. Thankfully a yellow car pulled up within seconds of her waving and Andy eased herself onto the torn leather seat gratefully. The initial adrenalin of being pulled from her comfortable bed was starting to wear off, and she knew she had to move while she still had some energy to burn.

  
She gave the cabbie Doug’s address and hoped her friend would forgive the intrusion. Andy wasn’t prepared to wait a minute longer than necessary to get to the bottom of this mess, and on some level, she knew Miranda would appreciate that.

  
When Doug did finally stumble to open the front door of his apartment, he gave Andy a look that made her feel as if he’d mistaken her for an alien. It took an unnaturally long time for him to realize that his best friend had actually shown up on his doorstep before dawn, but he had the good grace to accept the coffee and let her in without swearing.

  
“Jesus, Andy. If you didn’t look so incredibly pumped I would have thought someone had died.”

  
Throwing herself gratefully on Doug’s overstuffed sofa, Andy realized it was the first comfortable surface she’d encountered since being dragged from her bed.

  
“Sorry Dougie; but I did bring you coffee.”

  
Her pout had no effect on him, Andy noticed.

  
“A pastry or two would have killed you?”

  
Pushing the _TV Guide_ and back issues of _the Advocate_ to one side, Andy arranged the documents on the coffee table, in what she guessed was a logical order. She was careful to keep the front pages of each statement, the ones containing Miranda’s name and address, out of Doug’s sight for now. Sure enough, the sight of lots of numbers piqued Doug’s interest, and he flopped down on the sofa next to her.

  
“You know, I could still be in bed with Thomas.”

  
Andy bashed Doug playfully with her shoulder.

  
“I thought you were breaking up with him?”

  
Doug reached for one of the statements, his brow already furrowed in confusion.

  
“Well, yeah, but then he took his shirt off and I forgot.”

  
She laughed and Doug gathered up more papers, scanning them with a keen eye as he sipped at his coffee. She heard the creaking of a door before a tall, blond guy came shuffling into the living room. Thomas stared at Andy before deciding she wasn’t important enough to summon words for, and then he continued on into the kitchen. Not a morning person, then.

  
“So, there’s some weird activity on these accounts. I’m guessing that’s why you brought them here at the ass-crack of dawn? Whose money am I looking at?”

  
Andy weighed the merits of telling Doug; after all, she trusted him with the most personal details of her own life. Sharing Miranda’s secrets felt different somehow, and she figured she’d wait until knowing more before giving up information. She knew that when Doug woke up properly, when he looked at the transactions closely, he could probably work out the portfolio’s owner for himself. It might be a little chickenshit, but she just wasn’t ready to have that particular conversation yet.

  
“Can’t say at the moment.”

  
That prompted an incredulous look from Doug, and it would have had more effect if he wasn’t sitting there with bed head and rumpled pajamas.

  
“What kind of weird activity?”

  
Doug narrowed his eyes at Andy, recognizing her in full journalist mode. He’d already given her a crash course in everything from spread betting to Enron for the price of a few cocktails, although usually she’d tell him why she needed to know first. Andy held her breath as she watched him decide, but in the end, Doug realized she’d tell him when she could.

  
“Well, most people who know what they’re doing trade in a kind of pattern. Sort of like handwriting, you get used to certain peaks or dips, you know what I mean?”

  
She really struggled to keep a blank expression off her face, but Doug saw it and smirked.

  
“I’ll take that as a no?”

  
Thomas shuffled back through the living room in his boxers, and Andy was distracted for a moment by Doug’s taste in men. The guy was some kind of model, or aspiring actor, whatever the usual New York story was. He’d shown a flicker of interest in Andy once, when Runway was mentioned, but it extinguished as soon as he heard she no longer worked there.

  
“No, but thank God you’re a nerd, Dougie. You can translate these numbers into something approaching common sense, right?”

  
Doug’s own thoughts were distracted by the hot guy returning to his bed, where Doug would be waiting if not for this little financial disturbance.

  
“Maybe I can. And maybe if you’d gotten a useful degree, you’d be able to do it yourself. You Liberal Arts majors have a nerve, expecting all the smart kids to do the work for you. Maybe if you’d spent more time learning to count and less time memorizing Sylvia Plath poems…”

  
His good-natured teasing was cut off by a well-timed slap to the back of his head. Andy smirked as she made contact, but Doug took the hint.

  
“Leave it with me, and I’ll email you later? I’ll try to explain it in layperson terms.”

  
Andy knew a cue to leave when she heard it. She scrambled to her feet, the lack of sleep starting to spread its familiar numbness through her limbs. Doug saw her to the door, smoothing his hair down as best he could.

  
They parted with a hug, Andy debating whether to force herself to hit the office, or whether she could call in for time off given her late-night exploits. As she pressed the button for the elevator, Doug called after her.

  
“Don’t forget to call Lily about Friday!”

  
Waving in acknowledgment, Andy began her descent back to the gray drizzle of the fall morning. As she waved to Doug’s doorman, who had so graciously let her in a little while ago, her Blackberry chirped to life.

  
She sheltered under the awning, the street still quiet enough for her to hear clearly. Her copy editor was excited about the piece, confirming her first front-page, on the late morning edition. The presses were already rolling, and it had gone live on the paper’s website. Andy smiled at the thought, still thinking of the documents she’d left with Doug and the rest that were lodged in her purse. If she played all this right, it was going to be the start of something huge.

  
Which made her decision for her: she’d go home for a nap and a shower. Everyone would want a piece of her later, and she’d need to be on her game to handle them. An email beeped as she hung up, and Andy scrolled eagerly into her in-box.

  
Instead of the missive from Emily that she’d been expecting, she discovered that the sender was none other than Miranda Priestly. Andy was stunned, given that Miranda used her _Runway_ email account approximately three times a year to send thinly-veiled threats passing as memos to the entire staff. Typing was something generally left to lesser mortals, such as Emily or whichever new unfortunate was left flexing their fingers to commit Miranda’s words to cyberspace.

  
Inhaling deeply, Andy clicked on the unread message with no small amount of trepidation. It was short, and almost sweet.

  
_Acceptable_.

  
No signature, no asinine greeting that Miranda wouldn’t mean anyway. There was no point in wondering how Miranda had read the article already, or even if she was referring to something else. She’d probably had Emily risking RSI refreshing the page until Andy’s name appeared. This story was all they had in common now, and Andy seriously doubted it was a delayed judgment on Andy’s shorter hairstyle.

  
Which didn’t quite explain why Andy suddenly felt like running down the street, punching the air. Here she was once again, living and dying by Miranda’s approval.

  
Still, nobody else had to know that part. Heading towards the nearest subway, Andy was oblivious to the signs of the city coming fully back to life. Coffee carts and newspaper vendors opened for business on the sidewalks, but before the sun had finished rising, Andy had had the best day of her career.

  
Later that day she’d delve back into the world of Miranda Priestly, but for now she had an overdue appointment with her pillows.


	3. Chapter 3

_**If I was dressed in my best defenses,                  
Would you agree to meet me for coffee?**_             
\- Ani DiFranco, _Superhero     ___

 

 

 

Andy managed a whole hour of sleep before another screaming fight from her next-door neighbors punctured the morning quiet.More than once she’d considered calling the police just to stop them from disrupting her rest, but she knew the realities of the overworked NYPD and never quite managed to pick up the phone.Once their yells had awoken her, all the noises of the city crept back in from the muffled noise of the street below, all honking horns and the bustle of people.Her own apartment joined the conspiracy, with the windowpane rattling faintly in the breeze and the dripping in the bathroom impossible to ignore once she had registered them.

 

 

Feeling almost as groggy as she had before her nap, Andy stumbled into the bathroom and started her day for the second time in a few hours.She shucked off her comfortable cotton pajamas after starting the flow of the shower.Her crappy studio apartment might be noisy and about as roomy as a shoebox, but the water pressure was phenomenal by New York standards.

 

Stepping under the spray, Andy felt her goose bumps disappear under the hot deluge.As her neurons started to fire properly again, Andy began humming to herself.She didn’t know the name of the song, just something that she’d heard around the office.Her fellow inmate, or battleship buddy as they called each other since their desks were pressed up together in a dark corner of the newsroom, had an iTunes collection that somehow contained just about every song in existence.Josh was both a keen journalist and a budding DJ, and Andy was grateful he created a nice atmosphere for them both to work in.Most of the senior staff were civil towards the young upstarts, but in an industry where the layoffs were as frequent as the mergers, nobody wanted to be too friendly to someone who’d be after their job someday.

 

Having washed her hair and scrubbed her skin until it tingled, Andy stepped out of the shower and began her usual efficient routine of getting ready.Her phone displayed a mocking text from Josh, and congratulatory ones from Doug and Lily.A missed call from her mother left Andy to assume that her parents had been checking the _Mirror's_ website.She should never have shown her dad how to set up a Google alert.

 

Picking out clothes took a little longer than normal, and Andy found herself instinctively reaching for what she referred to as the _Runway_ section of her overstuffed closet.Sure, everything was last season by now, but somehow just the fact of being back in Miranda’s orbit made her conscious of not hitting the streets in her usual jeans and Converse combo.

 

With only a brief stop to fuel her own burgeoning Starbucks addiction (where she purchased a latte at a perfectly sane temperature, without any ridiculous embellishments), Andy hit the office not much later than she usually would.

 

Sarcastic applause from Josh greeted her as she made it to their dingy corner, farthest from the wall of ornate windows and imperious columns that made the rest of the newsroom look so impressive.She gave him the finger before shoving papers around to make space for her laptop.

 

“John wants to see you, hotshot.You couldn’t have given me a heads up on your big break?”

 

Despite his pout, Josh looked genuinely happy for her.His goal was business reporting, so Andy rarely came into conflict with him.She had wondered if he’d feel like this story had really been his turf, but the reality was that the coverage was destined to be far more interested in Miranda’s fame than her actual business dealings.

 

“It all happened so fast.Did the Pulitzer committee call yet?I need to know what to wear to the ceremony.”

 

He took her false arrogance in stride, after the initial weirdness where Josh had thought it completely acceptable to hit on his new colleague a few times per day, they had developed a pretty decent friendship.He was making his way through the women of the administrative staff at a pretty steady rate, and Andy kept telling anyone who asked that she wasn’t ready for another relationship.

 

Her editor stuck his head out of his office door at that point and waved at Andy across the wide expanse of the room.Clearly their catch up couldn’t wait.Downing the rest of her coffee, Andy dropped the empty cup on Josh’s desk on her way past, since he had custody of the one trash can in their part of the office.

 

John greeted Andy with a warm smile, an expression she hadn’t seen on him since the end of her interview.Being a junior reporter, she usually dealt with the copy editors on a day-to-day basis, but John had taken the time once or twice to praise her for one piece or another.He motioned for her to take a seat before sinking back into his own leather-backed chair.

 

Compared to the organized chaos of the main newsroom, John kept his office as immaculate as though he’d never been a reporter.Books lined the wall behind him and not so much as a post-it littered the surface of his desk.

 

“So, Andy.Turns out being a _Runway_ girl came in useful after all.Who tipped you off?”

 

Andy shifted nervously in her seat; she hadn’t expected the third degree about what had been a pretty straightforward story.

 

“I mean, those quotes you got are amazing.Whoever told you what Miranda said clearly has the inside scoop.”

 

Wait, what?

 

“John, I don’t know what you mean.I got those quotes from Miranda.She was my source.”

 

His eyes widened comically at that.Andy thought her editor-in-chief reminded her a little of Droopy Dog with his jowly face and kind, sad eyes.When he was surprised like this, it just added to his cartoonish appearance.John exhaled loudly, whistling through his teeth in what Andy hoped was admiration.He rubbed at the back of his neck as his gaze roamed over Andy’s face, apparently considering what to ask next.

 

“You got some _chutzpah_, kid.Not many people would call up their ex-boss, never mind a bitch on wheels like Miranda Priestly, and ask for an interview on one of the worst days of her life.I think we’ve been underestimating you.”

 

The urge to correct his assumption welled up immediately, and yet Andy choked it back down before she knew what the hell she was doing.She blushed slightly, and twisted her fingers together in her lap.

 

“You have to try, right?Looks like it paid off.”

 

Andy had no idea what she thought she’d achieve by lying to her boss, but suddenly she really didn’t feel like explaining about scotch in Miranda’s private study and the personal information Andy was still carrying around in her purse.

 

“Well, it was a hell of a scoop._The Times_, _The Post_ couldn’t get a word out of her.They’ve got vague ‘fashion industry sources’ and I’ve been fielding calls all morning about how we got the inside track.”John leaned forward at that, concern showing on his face. “You know, someone is gonna remember sooner or later that you used to work for her.”

 

There was no malice in her editor’s words, but Andy bristled as though she’d just been slapped.Straightening in her chair, she spat out a protest.

 

“That doesn’t mean I can’t be objective.”

 

John smiled patiently at that.He reminded her of her dad in moments like these, protective without patronizing, and amused by Andy’s righteous indignation.

 

“Of course you can, and you were.What I’m saying is that this is going to be a circus pretty fast. Hell, it already is.Don’t get caught up; don’t become a part of the story.”

 

Now Andy felt doubly crappy about lying.John didn’t want to see her in over her head, and he didn’t have the faintest idea exactly how much she was already involved.

 

“I really think there’s a bigger story here, boss.I’ve got some irons in the fire, and if you don’t mind, I’d like to give it as much time as possible before I break it.”

 

Adrenalin was already coursing through Andy’s system, her fingers almost itching to be back at her keyboard.All morning she’d been compiling a list of names that she absolutely had to speak to, wondering whether Miranda would try to stop her when Andy started approaching them.

 

John shrugged at her request.

 

“If you can get us anything else like this morning, which has just gone into a third run I might add, you can be excused from covering zoning battles or anything else we’ve stuck you with.I mean it, Andy.Do well with this and we won’t forget it.”

 

Andy stood with another smile, although that one felt oddly frozen on her face.John nodded at her apparent eagerness and she escaped his office before her internal scream of excitement somehow slipped out vocally.

 

She was getting everything she wanted, which was exactly how Miranda had tempted Andy in the first place, with her little deal. Not bad for a few hours' work.Andy checked her phone again, saw another missed call from her mom and decided to call back home to Cincinnati real quick so she could work uninterrupted.When her mom answered the phone with a squeal, Andy forgot all about Miranda’s potential guilt, and decided instead to enjoy the best day of her career to date.

 

Hours later she had the makings of a pretty good investigative piece, if not an actual series.The structure was clear in her mind, all Andy needed was the flesh to put on the skeleton.She’d been surprised at how many phone numbers were still lodged in her memory, but it meant one less conversation with Emily, a mercy Andy knew better than to take for granted.Lack of sleep would be biting at the _Runway_ offices by now, and the latest wire photos confirmed that Miranda had stormed into the Elias-Clarke building as though it were any other workday.

 

Andy had convinced herself that she was merely following her story as she refreshed over and over on her wire searches for Miranda Priestly.Her own article was being quoted all over the internet, she noted with some satisfaction, but she spent far longer than she needed to staring at shot after shot of Miranda leaving her house, getting out of the Mercedes, and forcing her way through the throng of reporters at Elias-Clarke.

 

Perhaps Andy was looking for signs of guilt, of Miranda’s deception, but she wasn’t entirely sure what that would look like anyway.All she could tell from the hundreds of snaps was that Miranda’s hair was a little bit wilder than normal; when she periodically grew it out just a little, some strands refused to stay exactly in place.It made her look harried, less polished than normal, but still completely striking.No mistaking the sneer in her expression of course, Andy had witnessed that particular look more times than she cared to count.But she did see the slight puffiness around Miranda’s eyes that not even the most expensive gels could counter.The high-res images showed a paleness that went beyond a careful avoidance of sunshine, and closer to someone who hadn’t slept in at least a day.

 

Yet each time Andy refreshed the page and a new set of images came flooding in, she initially saw Miranda as she always was.Which was no doubt how others would see her; it was only by looking closely that Andy was able to see these subtle signs.Part of her felt that Miranda should be at home, catching up on her sleep (which she never seemed to get enough of to begin with) and reassuring her girls.Being in the office, where a certain image was required and nobody ever got close to relaxed was hardly the best environment for someone under the kind of stress that Miranda was experiencing.Wasn’t that kind of consideration exactly what had made Andy such a good assistant in the first place?At least until she had extended the same consideration to Nigel and her own integrity, anyway.

 

Which meant that Andy really had to ask herself why she gave so much of a damn.Miranda was a story; nothing more, nothing less.Why worry about her rest and her health unless it was worth writing about?And yet, Andy couldn’t seem to help the worrying, and she really didn’t want to dwell on the reasons why.

 

The clock on her laptop said that three o’clock was fast approaching, and Andy knew she’d reached the limits of what the internet and her own imagination could provide.To pursue her story she’d have to be at the center of Miranda’s world, and that meant _Runway_ first and foremost.

 

Waiting until she’d come out of the subway, Andy called Emily with a heavy heart.

 

“Miranda Priestly’s office.”

 

Andy took a deep breath as the terrified nostalgia of her first day two years ago overwhelmed her.

 

“Hi Emily, it’s Andy.”

 

The exasperation transmitted itself without the need for words.God, Emily was good at that.

 

“I, uh, need to follow up a few leads for the story.Can you arrange a visitor pass for me?I don’t want to be tackled in the lobby by security.”

 

The faint tapping of Emily’s stylish ergonomic keyboard provided the initial response and Andy was relieved to know that she was in.Whether she’d feel like that once trapped in a building with a rampaging Miranda was another matter altogether, but for now it constituted a victory.Andy couldn’t help wondering what instructions Miranda had given her staff with regards to Andy: would she really have _carte blanche_ to go digging around?

 

“Honestly Andrea, ‘tackled in the lobby’.You have such a high opinion of yourself, to think that we had the time to put the whole building on high alert in case you returned one day.”

 

The implication rang out loud and clear: once you’re done with Miranda, you are no longer important enough to be worried about.Well that had all changed when Miranda decided to become the new Martha Stewart, and not in the baking peach cobbler kind of way.

 

“I’ll be there in a few. Thanks, Emily.”

 

Just a sputter of indignation greeted Andy before the line went dead.Had Emily really gotten so used to not being thanked that politeness actually offended her now?Well, Andy didn’t care as long as she could get on with her research.True to Emily’s word, nobody batted an eye as Andy signed for her visitor's pass in the ornate reception area.She boarded the elevator and rode to the seventeenth floor alone.The middle of the day and most people were chained to their desks, another reason Andy much preferred life as a roving reporter.

 

As she stepped into the _Runway_ reception, with its catwalk-bright lighting and exotic flowers on every surface, Andy felt a distinct weakness in her knees that had nothing to do with the height of her slightly scuffed Jimmy Choos.She honestly hadn’t imagined she’d ever be back here, not after Paris and the fountain with a very soggy cellphone.

 

As though thinking of that phone-destroying incident had called it into life, her current cell rang out loudly against the whispers and murmurs of the magazine’s offices.Grabbing at it, Andy answered before her polyphonic tones got her reprimanded.

 

“Doug, hi!”

 

“Hey Andy, I just wanted to let you know that I’m emailing you some background on those numbers.”

 

That confused Andy for a moment, why bother to ring when the email would appear on her phone any minute now?

 

“Listen, not for nothing, but everyone knows the trouble that_ Wisteria_ is in.The CEO and CFO are both being investigated, and it’s not looking good.”

 

Doug paused, and the echoes of the background prompted Andy to realize he’d sneaked into a bathroom to call her.

 

“And since most of the investment came from the big shots at Elias-Clarke, I think I can guess what your attachment is to all of this.Then I saw your story on the way to work.”

 

She heard a note of accusation in his tone, and Andy remembered the tense period after returning from Paris, as she gradually lost her boyfriend and had to grovel to her two best friends.Lily had forgiven her self-involvement and glamazon tendencies almost instantly, but Doug had been a harder sell. He’d defended Andy for so long when everyone else started getting pissed at her, only for her to still break up with Nate and throw herself into reporting the way she had thrown herself into being an assistant.

 

“Doug, it’s not what you think.Yes, I’m using my old life to get the inside track, but this is a good thing for me.Maybe my big break.”

 

He didn’t sound convinced by her assurances.

 

“I seem to remember you saying that about an assistant job two years ago, back when you though Dolce was an ice-cream flavor.”

 

Andy fought back the groan of exasperation.As much as she loved her friends, the friends who had known her back when she had braces and not enough frizz-control product, it was still frustrating that anything to do with Miranda had to be explained to them.Wasn’t Andy a grown adult capable of making her own choices?

 

“I appreciate your translating the money stuff, I really do.Can I call you later to explain?”

 

It seemed to keep the peace, at least temporarily.Doug hung up, no doubt rushing back to his desk for another afternoon of crunching numbers.Andy smiled at the receptionist, who didn’t bother to return the favor.She gave Andy a disinterested look and resumed filing her nails while taking calls on her discreet headset.

 

Deciding not to bother with the bimbo squad, Andy simply waved and took off down the corridor to her left.It was all about looking as though she was meant to be there, and sure enough, nobody questioned her.She made it to familiar glass walls and saw Nigel inside, hunched over a set of proofs with a frown on his face.Andy knocked, although the door lay open.

 

She might have been offended that it took Nigel a long moment to recognize her, but once he did the crushing hug he rushed to give her made up for it.

 

“Well, if it isn’t little Six.What brings you back to the happiest place on earth?”

 

Andy dropped her bag on the huge white table and gratefully perched on a stool.It had been a long time since she spent a day in 3 inch heels, and her feet were almost suicidal about it.

 

“I think you’re confusing the world’s premier fashion magazine with Disneyland. And I’m still a four.”

 

It earned a half-smile from Nigel at least.He sat opposite her, the proofs discarded for the moment, though Andy could see a whole lot of yellow in them from where she sat.Miranda would be horrified, if they made it to her desk in that state.

 

“Seriously, missy.Why on earth would you invoke the wrath of You-Know-Who?I’m surprised she hasn’t kept snipers on the roof with a photo of you since Paris.”

 

Andy rolled her eyes.

 

“Emily says I wasn’t important enough to be considered a threat.And we both know she would have strangled me herself, if Miranda had asked.”

 

“Speaking of Miranda…”

 

Taking a deep breath, Andy was careful to keep her face firmly in neutral.She didn’t know, for one thing, how damaged Nigel’s relationship with Miranda had been by the James Holt fiasco.In her recent foray through all the business news she could process, Andy saw that Jacqueline Follet had already been forced out, with barely a year under her hand-stitched leather belt.

 

“I try to avoid the subject as much as possible, Nigel.”

 

He scoffed at that.

 

“Please, I’ve already heard from Brad and Emily that you were there last night.And believe it or not, some people in this office actually read the _Mirror_.Word of your front page splash may have made the rounds.”

 

For some reason, Andy found herself blushing furiously.Nigel always had been able to see right through her crap.

 

“She needed my help, and I needed hers to get a big story.”

 

Nigel considered her simple explanation for a moment, staring at her with an expression Andy couldn’t quite place.

 

“Well, we all know Miranda is so giving.”

 

They both started laughing at that, the camaraderie of shell-shocked survivors clicking into place so easily.

 

“Seriously, Nigel.She says I can run with the story, it was almost like she gave her blessing.”

 

Nigel’s eyebrows shot up at that little tidbit.

 

“Does anyone really know what’s going on?I’m not saying Miranda isn’t devious, or badly behaved, but does risky trading really sound like her?”

 

Reaching for a pencil, Nigel began to doodle on the blank paper in front of him, clearly thinking about what Andy had said.

 

“It does seem odd.For one thing, she was married to a man who runs a brokerage firm; why would she break the rules so blatantly?”

 

They both considered their answers, in which Miranda’s disregard for rules other than her own featured prominently.

 

“I suppose Stephen is a logical place to start, maybe this is her way of getting at him?And Irv lost a bit of money by not selling up when Miranda did.Once Wisteria announced they were being sued, all hell broke loose.”

 

Andy thought of Irv’s infuriating assistant, Marjorie, who had liked to regale Andy with tales of her four cats every time they spoke.Unfortunately, Andy had always been on a Miranda deadline and generally just needed to know whether Irv was available.Getting information out of that woman would not be a pleasant experience, but for more front pages she would endure it.Especially since the woman who effectively ran Irv Ravitz’s life would be the perfect source on his involvement.Companies went bust all the time, but they didn’t usually have one of the most famous women in New York selling up just a few hours before the stock price plummeted.Andy realized that she wouldn’t get much more than gossip from _Runway_ staff and decided to move on.

 

“Thanks, Nigel.You always did know more than everybody else.”

 

Nigel stood to kiss her cheek, real warmth in the gesture.

 

“Flattery will get you nowhere.Just don’t risk pissing Miranda off right now.With the paparazzi and the stress, she’s about a hundred times more vicious than usual."

 

Andy stood too, slinging her purse back over her shoulder.

 

“I’ll be careful, I swear.After all, I survived almost nine months working for her, remember?”

 

Pursing his lips, Nigel crossed his arms across his chest.

 

“And look where that left you: unemployed, stranded in a foreign country, and at risk of never working in New York again.”

 

Andy gulped.He really did have a point.

 

She said her goodbyes and set off back into the maze of corridors and offices.Out of habit, she skirted close to the office she’d once shared with Emily.She had no intention of actually getting within sight of it until she encountered a crying girl in the hallway just outside.

 

The woman was about Andy’s age, with short and over-styled black hair.At almost six feet tall, she could have been &lt;i&gt;Runway&lt;/i&gt; model, and the vibrant designer dress that clung to her bony frame certainly didn’t hurt.Only when Andy saw the tray of Starbucks and the Hermès bag in the girl’s hands did she make the connection: _this was the new her._

_   
_

_   
_

Feeling a veritable wave of empathy, Andy approached.

 

“Hi. Um, you don’t know me, but I used to be you, basically.Can I ask what’s wrong?”

 

The other woman stared at Andy with panicked eyes, clearly she hadn’t expected to be interrupted in her misery.

 

“I just can’t do anything right today; worse than usual, anyway.Miranda is going to fire me, I know it.And I cannot afford to lose this job.How was I supposed to get back here in 5 minutes flat with all those reporters out there?”

 

The words were punctuated by sobs and swipes of a crumpled tissue.Andy remembered the tears she had shed in the name of Miranda’s disappointment and it was all she could do not to hug this complete stranger.

 

“Here, let me take these from you. I’ll just drop the stuff off with Emily, and you can go take a minute in the restroom, okay?”

 

Relief washed over the other girl’s face, and Andy managed to get hold of the bags and cups just in time before she bolted in the direction of the restrooms.Once more into the breach, she thought to herself, and tried to ignore the little spark of excitement at seeing Miranda again.

 

In a matter of seconds, Andy was striding towards Emily’s desk with a very nervous grin frozen on her face.Emily was typing frantically, the phone pressed to her ear as she grumbled at some poor unfortunate in her clipped English accent.Andy saw her chance and swept past a distracted Emily into Miranda’s office.Although Emily shot to her feet with a hissed “hey!” her intervention was too late.

 

Andy was already in front of Miranda’s desk.

 

“Honestly, _Emily_, I told you five minutes.”Miranda spoke without looking up, her hand scraping across sheet after sheet of paper, and Andy recognized the repetitive, pointed strokes of Miranda’s signature in the movement.

 

“I’m willing to bet her name isn’t Emily.”

 

Miranda’s head shot up so fast Andy briefly worried that she’d snap her neck.The editor’s eyes narrowed reflexively, ready to disapprove of something on principle alone.Deciding to cut her off before things turned nasty, Andy placed the steaming Starbucks cups on the table, cheekily helping herself to the second one.

 

Not that she liked coffee the way Miranda drank it, but it wouldn’t do to start showing how awkward she felt being back here.She winced as the scalding liquid burned her mouth, but swallowed quickly and covered with a smile.Miranda, for her part, took the remaining cup and eyed Andy with curiosity.After all, she’d always been impressed by bold gestures.As Miranda leaned back in her stylish but ergonomically sound chair, Andy took her chance.

 

“I’ve done some research, and I think I know where the story is going.I’ll know more in a few days.”

 

Andy wondered briefly if she should sit, but Miranda had made no indication that she should.Hell, the woman barely had a second in her schedule unaccounted for each day, and Andy’s presence in the office alone was probably derailing work on a couple of different continents.

 

“And there was no-one else you could bore with these unfinished thoughts?Are you really so lacking in companions, Andréa?I thought you were so _popular_.”

 

The words lacked their usual quiet malice, Andy thought.Miranda glanced at the papers in front of her one last time before pulling her glasses off and allowing them to dangle from her fingertips.She appeared to be waiting for a response, which was pretty damn freaky at the best of times, even more so when Andy had marched into the office without a plan.

 

“My understanding, Miranda, was that you wanted to be kept in the loop.Are you saying I can publish whatever I want without interference from you?”

 

Miranda shook her head, a flicker of amusement playing across her lips before the more traditional frown settled in once more.

 

“Very well, but you can’t seriously think you can waltz in here without an appointment.If you need time, speak to Emily.”Miranda’s eyes turned briefly towards the outer office, the same look Andy remembered from that day when Miranda had reduced Andy to tears for the first time (and when she had called Emily stupid).

 

“Surely you remember some basic details about how things work around here?I seem to recall you blabbing on about how smart you are.”

 

Chastised, Andy stared at the floor for a long moment.Part of her was seething, angry with herself for still allowing Miranda to get to her in this way.Although what was really freaky about the whole situation was that she didn’t actually feel _scared_.Where she would once have been quaking with fear, Andy was actually clear-headed enough to focus on other emotions, like the complete frustration of dealing with Miranda and her mind games.Maybe she really was growing up?Or had she just seen too much of the woman behind the mask by now?

 

But why couldn’t the infuriating woman see that Andy was offering her help?Even without the late night call, Andy could have written anything she wanted about Miranda.Old friends and contacts would have helped her, and if anyone was well-placed to rip Miranda apart in print, who had more ammunition than her former assistant?

 

She hadn’t, and Andy suspected that Miranda knew that she never would.

 

“Fine, I’ll deal with Emily from now on.Sorry to bother you.”

 

Turning on her heel, Andy cursed herself for ever being stupid enough to get involved again.Being on Miranda’s radar only led to disappointment, to doubting herself, and she’d become so much more than that in the past year.As she exited the office, she heard Miranda speak once more.

 

“I didn’t say you were bothering me.”

 

Andy risked looking back, her thoughts tumbling over Medusa and the hapless victims turned to stone by their stupidity.Miranda met her gaze with a questioning look that turned Andy to, well, not stone.

 

Oh God, Andy thought as she fled.What a really, really stupid time to develop a pointless crush.   
  


  



	4. Chapter 4

**Our conversations are like minefields,                                    
No one's found a safe way through one yet                          **

The Mountain Goats - _Southwood Plantation Road           _

  
[Part 1](http://community.livejournal.com/fictorium/15379.html)  |  [Part 2](http://community.livejournal.com/fictorium/15674.html)  |  [Part 3](http://community.livejournal.com/fictorium/16791.html)

After her little self-revelation about Miranda and the Inappropriate Crush, as she’d immediately started calling it, Andy decided the only way to maintain her sanity was burying herself in work. Which would have been a great idea, if not for the fact that all her work seemed to revolve around the person she was trying not to think of. After all, the woman was basically Manhattan royalty, and the city was abuzz with gossip. So Andy treated herself to more than the regulation glass of wine, greasy takeout, and an early night instead.

  
Being on general assignment usually meant getting all the crappy stories that beat reporters wouldn’t waste their time on. In Andy’s case that almost always meant covering late night crime stories when it was too cold or rainy for the crime beat guys to get out of bed. After all, it was rare for a murder in New York to actually be a big deal, even after Giuliani’s clean up. In between catching all the ‘boring’ crime stories that jaded New Yorkers skimmed over, Andy was left doing filler pieces and the occasional local interest story.

  
But the next morning, John asked Andy to write a profile on Miranda for the website’s coverage of the case. It seemed he was willing to uphold his end of the bargain if she would keep providing the goods on _La Priestly_. Everyone from the Mirror’s gossip columnist to the Business Editor wanted a word, wanted to run their impressions of both Miranda and her alleged crimes past Andy, and she was beginning to worry that thinking about Miranda 24 hours a day was unhealthy; it certainly had been at _Runway_  
.

Doug interrupted the steady stream of visitors to her desk with a phone call, and she was glad for an excuse to slip out onto the fire escape, even if she wouldn’t be lucky enough to get a change of subject with it. He apologized for giving her a hard time the day before, and reiterated his concern for her being back in the midst of craziness. Andy decided to take his words in the spirit of friendship, and agreed to see him Friday at Lily’s newest gallery opening. His initial explanation of the numbers had really helped her get a handle on exactly what was going on, and she promised him ridiculously flavored cocktails as grateful payment. She’d have to think of a better reward when he gave her the full analysis, and hell, maybe John would let her expense it too.

  
For the next two days, Andy was able to lose herself in work quite successfully, and her editor made a point of praising her efforts. She still felt uneasy about withholding, but until she had some cold, hard facts there was no point in blabbing around the newsroom. Her contacts at Runway proved invaluable, and the wider fashion industry seemed to remember that rarest of things: an assistant to Miranda Priestly who had actually been nice. With a little persuasion, Andy had been able to gather enough quotes to write a biography on Miranda, if she’d chosen to.

  
By the time Friday night rolled around, Andy was more than ready for the weekend. The hours hunched over her laptop and on the phone were certainly taking a toll, and all next week she was getting face time with everyone from Miranda’s broker to Irv’s assistant. When John winked and told her to enjoy the weekend, Andy felt confident that for once she wouldn’t be getting a last minute call to cover any puff pieces. She’d earned it.

  
SoHo had been her favorite part of moving to New York at first, though Andy had soon discovered that bohemian and free-spirited didn’t mean cheap, not in Manhattan. But the myriad galleries and bars and achingly hip restaurants were still fun to look at, even if most of the truly amazing stuff was in a different galaxy from her price range.

  
Lily’s gallery was a small one by New York standards, but Andy took a lot of pride in the fact that her best friend had gone from assistant to coordinator in two short years. Andy had helped where she could, slipping notes to her Arts Editor whenever a show needed a bit more mainstream buzz, but with the contacts and hype Lily had generated in the past few months, she didn't really need that any more.

  
The only downside was Lily's new boyfriend: the living, breathing stereotype of the tortured artist. At least he came from a wealthy family, so Andy could be reasonably sure that he wasn't taking advantage of her friend. God, why couldn't anyone she loved date someone bearable? Between Doug's frosty models or brainless actors, and Lily's angsty artists who thought eternal damnation a good discussion topic over brunch, Andy realized she'd been too kind to them by seeing Nate for all those years. Between his cooking skills and his good nature, he'd been a welcome addition to their little group right away. Andy found herself missing him for the first time in months, and it was almost a relief after the weird bubbling sensation of thinking about Miranda.

  
Who, of course, had crept right back into her thoughts.

  
Damn it, thought Andy. Her first move was to swipe some free, awful, champagne from a passing server. She almost let it hit a tastebud or two before pouring it straight down her throat.

  
She felt confident in her looks, at least. Dressing in labels again, without the spectre of the clackers' judgement, had put the fun back into dressing up. Her skinny jeans looked great with the burgundy Louboutins, and the Chanel blazer that she had once struggled to button now sat perfectly on her frame. She didn't beat herself up over every emergency breakfast muffin or comfort pasta dish now, but not living with a conveyor belt of amazing food had certainly made it easier to keep in shape without reverting to Emily’s strange fixation on cheese cubes.

  
Lily waved enthusiastically from across the cavernous space, and since it was still early, it took Andy hardly any time to get to her side. Thankfully, the boyfriend was nowhere in evidence.

  
"Hey Lil, this place looks amazing, again."

  
Not bothering to be modest, Lily nodded enthusiastically. She launched into her usual explanation of the theme, of the music choices and all the other things that she'd been stressing out over in her emails for weeks. Andy smiled at Lily's obvious excitement, and found herself caught up in it. She didn't refuse the second or the third glass of cheap bubbly that came her way, and by the time the gallery had begun to fill with art scenesters, Andy was getting quite a happy little buzz on.

  
Doug arrived soon after, with a bored-looking Thomas in tow. Almost immediately, Thomas took off to join a group of equally pretty and disaffected boys who all looked like simply existing was torture. Well, if that's what they called having fun at the weekend, more power to them.

  
Despite the awkwardness earlier in the week, Andy was soon cracking up as Doug regaled her with stories of his dorky coworker who had outdone herself by stapling her jacket to her desk. He didn’t seem eager to rush off and join Thomas, which was pretty cool; Andy’s Garbo-like insistence that she was perfectly fine by herself didn’t always extend to social functions.

  
Unfortunately, Doug seemed to be sticking by her for a reason, as it turned out. A few minutes later, Lily and her whiny boyfriend, Preston, appeared with a fairly good-looking guy in a fashionably distressed suit. When both Lily and Doug were practically falling over themselves to introduce the newcomer, Andy got that sinking feeling in her stomach.

  
When it just so happened that Simon was, shock, a writer and a movie critic; well wasn’t that just a freaky coincidence? Not wanting to ruin what had been a pretty good night so far, Andy went along with it, although Simon didn’t do much for her that she could see. He was tanned, with light-brown hair that wasn’t too fussy, and a smile that seemed genuine. She had definitely been fixed up with a lot worse.

  
He might not be her type, but at least he wasn’t horrible to look at, Andy figured as she accepted her fourth glass of carbonated rainwater, or whatever the hell they were passing off as champagne. She idly wondered if Miranda would appreciate her realization that once you’ve had the good stuff, you can’t go back?

  
But for the next hour or so, she forced herself to make small talk in front of garish canvases whose central theme appeared to be assaulting her eyeballs with primary-colored paint vomit. Admittedly, Andy had about as much interest in art as she did in nuclear fission, but she usually found some things bearable. Like on her last day in Paris, killing time until she got on her hastily rearranged flight, she’d wandered around the Pompidou Centre and found a hundred things that struck her as beautiful. This stuff just looked like an angry toddler had reenacted scenes from **The Exorcist** with Baby’s First Paint Set. Wow, she was getting bitchy, Andy realized. At least she wasn’t sharing these thoughts out loud.

  
Simon, for his part, didn’t try to convince her about the art, since her disinterest was probably pretty obvious. Andy appreciated that he tried to ask interesting questions, and he wasn’t quite as overbearing as most movie buffs she’d encountered before; in fact he had plenty of funny things to say about Ghostbusters and in Andy’s book that made for a decent human being.

  
She was almost coming around to the idea of saying yes, should he ask her out, when the pealing notes of her cell phone sounded over the soft jazz playing in the background. Andy made her apologies and bolted for the side door, knowing all the exits like the back of her hand from all the occasions she’d run out early on some errand or story.

  
Of course, it was Miranda calling, because if something made no sense whatsoever, that was what Miranda would do. Andy had another unfortunate moment of déjà vu, remembering the fight with Nate that had effectively ended their relationship, running out of this gallery and then seeing Miranda’s name on her phone’s screen.

  
She snapped out of it to answer before her voicemail picked up, though Andy had a feeling she would regret it.

“Why haven’t you called Emily to make an appointment?” Miranda snapped at her, with no formalities or greetings to soften the blow.

  
Which, again with the not making sense, because shouldn’t Emily be the one asking that? Andy began to regret her adventures in substandard grape drinks, because she was feeling distinctly hazy when she most needed her wits about her.

  
“I don’t … I guess I didn’t need her for anything yet?”

  
Miranda exhaled sharply at that, the little huff of annoyance that Andy had once dreaded the way French aristocrats had dreaded sharp-edged metal. Tonight it was just another detail.

  
“I swear, Miranda, as soon as I have my story together, I’ll let you know. Or I’ll let Emily know, whatever.” She almost felt like apologizing, though she had no idea what for.

  
“Fine.” Miranda sounded distracted, like it was anything but fine, but she wasn’t going to waste any more time on it.

  
A thought struck Andy in that moment, and because the filter between her brain and her mouth had been dissolved in champagne, she blurted it out.

  
“Do you have someone you can talk to about all this? I mean, not the legal stuff, but to vent, you know?”

  
It was the most personal question Andy had ever asked her former boss, and she was already fervently praying that someone would invent time travel so that she could go back and have never said the stupid words in the first place.

  
“As you well know, I have a legal team, and--”

  
Ratcheting from bold, straight past brave and directly into suicidal, Andy cut her off.

  
“Yeah, and three nannies, an assistant, a driver and a jet. You’re a regular Madonna.”

  
Andy was beginning to regret not taking out a life insurance policy. It would have been nice to cover the funeral costs, at least. The damage done, she plowed on.

  
“But that wasn’t what I asked you, Miranda. You know you hate it when people duck questions. In fact, it’s just baffling to you why people can’t answer what they’re asked, right?”

  
That caused Miranda to actually splutter, the least dignified noise that Andy had ever heard her make.

  
“Are you _mocking_ me?”

  
Andy held her breath, as though that would somehow erase her actions. Good luck getting another front page in this lifetime, she figured. Miranda was going to slice her into pieces and feed her to Patricia, Andy was almost sure of it.

  
“Not that it’s any of your business Andréa, but no, there’s nobody I need to talk to. I’ve been advised not to, unless the conversation is privileged.”

  
That made Andy sad for some inexplicable reason. She knew, of course, that Miranda had the kind of steely disposition that didn’t require hugs and muffin baskets every time the world got a little tough, but surely even the Ice Queen needed to get the anger, if not the other emotions, off her chest?

  
“You could talk to me. Off the record. I’ve kept your secrets before.”

  
The faint noises from the street were all that Andy could hear instead of a response, and she pulled the phone from her ear to confirm that Miranda had not, in fact, hung up on her. Eventually, Miranda deigned to reply.

  
“Perhaps you could…”

  
“Hey, babe. You’ve been out here forever! Everything okay?”

  
Andy spun around in horror at Simon’s interruption. Simon, who she probably wouldn’t be able to pick out of a lineup come morning, had just intruded on the most crucial moment in her entire relationship with Miranda, and it left Andy with a strange urge to remove one of her gorgeous shoes and stab him with the elegant four-inch heel.

  
Because Miranda had ended the call.

  
Miranda who didn’t accept anything less than her own laser-like focus at all times, had been usurped by some stranger at a party, who had seen fit to talk to Andy as if he owned her. Andy felt sick to her stomach as she stood there, staring in disbelief at the now dim screen of her phone. She tried calling back, only for the call to be dropped instantly.

  
“I … have to go. Work.”

  
She didn’t owe him an explanation, but one skill Andy hadn’t picked up yet was the ability to sweep out and leave everyone guessing. She wasn’t entirely sure she could sweep out anyway, considering she was standing in a blocked-off alleyway, with Simon between her and the door back into the building.

  
He looked a little hurt at her announcement, but damn, did he really think she owed him her undivided attention for the rest of the night just because they’d talked some crap about Bill Murray and the Stay-Puft Man under artistically arranged lights?

  
With a faint smile, Andy pushed gently past him, intent on retrieving her things from the cloakroom and getting out of there as soon as possible. She tried Miranda twice more, getting voicemail each time. She’d never even heard Miranda’s voicemail message before tonight, since Miranda never missed a call unless it was from her husbands.

  
“Can I call you?” He yelled after her, though it occurred to Andy that she hadn’t actually given him her number. Well, she’d be texting both Lily and Doug to inform them that anyone else who gave her number to Simon would soon find themselves as an ex-friend. She did not need this bullshit right now.

  
Not risking the delay of explaining to her friends, Andy went straight from the tiny cloakroom to the street, flagging down the first cab she came across. The driver regarded her with suspicion, though she had no idea why. When he asked for a destination, it was kind of hilarious to Andy that she couldn’t remember her own address all of a sudden.

  
So what else was a girl to do? She gave him Miranda’s address instead.

  
What seemed like a few seconds later, Andy was too many dollars lighter and swaying slightly on the first step outside Miranda’s townhouse. East 73rd looked much quieter tonight, though she saw a few shutter monkeys a couple of doors down, clearly taking a break from their paycheck-mandated stalking session.

  
Where had the Friday night gridlock of cabs and weekend visitors been when Andy had needed it most? Not one accident, road closure, or street party to create total chaos? Now she was back at the entrance to the lion’s den without benefit of time to think, or more importantly, to sober up.

  
Miranda’s house was, typically, lit up like an incredibly tasteful Christmas tree. Warm light poured from every window, as if contributing to global warming would somehow compensate for Miranda’s natural iciness. Summoning up the remnants of her courage, Andy rang the doorbell with a heavy touch.

  
It took so long to get a response that Andy had convinced herself nobody was home. She was just about to shuffle down the steps and set off for the subway when the door finally opened an inch or two, revealing Miranda herself.

  
And then common sense came flooding in. Miranda’s young children were probably in bed, or worse, she was entertaining important people at a dinner party. Maybe Miranda had a date; after all, her divorce had all but been finalized. Why hadn’t Andy thought of all this before hurtling uptown in a panic?

  
Miranda regarded her coolly through the minimal gap in the doorway, her lips approaching pursed, which was distinctly not good for Andy’s odds of survival. As Andy fumbled for an explanation, Miranda appeared to come to a decision and opened the door fully, indicating with the slightest tilt of her head that Andy should enter.

  
Andy felt awkward at having to pass so close to Miranda, but she offered up a silent prayer of thanks that she had made it into the foyer without some kind of clumsy fall. The thought of angering Miranda further made her feel weak in the knees, so she tried to shake off the fuzzy feeling from the alcohol and appear as if she belonged there.

Miranda closed the door with a cursory glance to see if any of the predatory photographers had noticed Andy’s late evening visit, and turned back to face her guest. One eyebrow was raised in question as her arms folded over her chest. Her bare foot tapped against the cool black and white marble, unable to contain her impatience as ever. Andy registered the defensive body language, but also the smooth lines of the black cashmere sweater that hugged Miranda’s curves in a frankly distracting way.

  
“You wouldn’t answer the phone. And I didn’t want to… but I just realized that I could have woken the girls. I wasn’t thinking, Miranda. I’m sorry.”

  
The apology hung in the air between them, and Andy felt that she had been apologizing for much more than simply being an uninvited guest. She only hoped Miranda would see that too. Besides, Miranda could easily have ignored her, or slammed the door in Andy’s face. Letting her in had to be a good sign, right?

  
“Our conversation no longer seemed important to you. Is it so much to ask to have someone’s complete attention? I hardly think so. It certainly doesn’t warrant you turning up on my doorstep like a stray puppy.”

  
The sneer in Miranda’s words was somehow not as strong as usual. Perhaps she was tired, or perhaps she didn’t really feel it, another Priestly command performance for Andy’s benefit.

  
“Well, I just wanted to say ‘I’m sorry’. And hey, I’ve said it twice now, so I’ll get going before you call the cops.”

  
Miranda raised one hand to her forehead, smoothing at the lines now faintly visible under her expertly-applied foundation. Andy recognized the move as pure frustration, something Miranda rarely let show except in her pointed little sighs.

  
“You’re here now, I suppose.”

  
With that, Miranda turned and padded down the hallway. When she reached the foot of the stairs, she looked back at Andy in expectation. As soon as Andy gathered her wits enough to move, Miranda took off again, confident that her unspoken instructions were being followed.

  
Meanwhile, Andy was conducting a very frantic inner monologue about not completely freaking out. Because she kind of had good reason, given the extremely weird situation she had found herself in. Doug would lose it if he knew where she was, having blown off the date her friends had so painstakingly set up for her. But she couldn’t think about explanatory phone calls and the excuses she’d make during them, because she was on the second floor of Miranda’s town house, where Miranda was waiting by an open door.

  
“Do you think you can fix drinks competently? I have to make a call.”

  
There was a challenge in the question, another item on Miranda’s eternal checklist for approval. Perhaps she wanted to judge Andy’s level of intoxication, or maybe it was just an old-fashioned power trip, but Andy found herself nodding dumbly and following the direction Miranda pointed in, to the strange little sitting room she’d been in just a few nights ago.

  
Miranda evaporated in her usual, slightly creepy way, the lack of heels making her more silent than normal (and thus, as good as deadly). Andy closed her eyes as she stood at the discreet little cabinet that comprised the bar, trying desperately to recall how Miranda had served up the Scotch for them both.

  
Since she couldn’t recall the clinking of ice, Andy opted to pour two generous measures, neat, into the waiting glasses. She attempted to take the same seat as on her previous visit, but found a stack of papers barring her way. Knowing better than to touch anything without permission, Andy was left with the couch, which would also be the only option for Miranda when she returned.

  
Even sipping, Andy was almost done with her drink by the time Miranda reappeared. The lines of Miranda’s face were more evident now, her eyes clouded darker which usually meant someone was about to get fired, or at least quietly and efficiently eviscerated. Andy really hoped she wasn’t about to become the unlucky victim.

  
“That took longer than I thought.”

  
No apology, of course. Which was good in a way, because it proved Andy hadn’t actually crossed over into the Twilight Zone, and on nights like this you had to cling to whatever you could.

  
Snatching her glass from the end table (Andy mentally congratulated herself on thinking to use a coaster) Miranda drained it in one gulp. Without offering Andy more, she refilled it and took up her seat at the opposite end of the couch. Probably just as well, since Andy was already more than halfway to drunk.

  
“I hope I didn’t wake Caroline and Cassidy.”

  
At a loss for what to say Andy had assumed the girls, usually Miranda’s favorite topic, would be safe ground. She had apparently miscalculated, given the tightening of Miranda’s face at the mention of their names.

  
“The girls aren’t here.”

  
It looked as though it physically pained Miranda to spit the words out.

  
“Apparently it was getting really _lame_ to have to avoid the paparazzi, and their father just _happened_ to suggest that he has room for them anytime. So they asked to go there. It’s for the best, obviously.”

  
Oh, shit.

  
Andy couldn’t claim to be an expert in the emotions of Miranda Priestly, other than the fact that she didn’t exactly seem to experience the full range, but even on Andy’s first day at _Runway_ she could have guessed how much that had to hurt. Children could be the most selfish creatures in the world, and not mean the slightest bit of harm in asking for whatever they wanted. So they’d walked out on Miranda when she probably most wanted them around. Andy tried not to dwell on how that was becoming a theme.

  
“Yeah, probably for the best. I mean, if that’s what you’ve decided.”

  
It wasn’t exactly a sophisticated tactic, but sometimes the quickest way to get Miranda past her annoyance was to convince her that you thought it was her idea all along. It was far from foolproof, allowing her to save face, but at this stage Andy would try anything.

  
Mollified for the moment, Miranda allowed herself to sink back against the couch, glass still in hand. Andy was pleased to note that this seat was far more comfortable than the chair she’d been stuck in previously, but it didn’t allow her to feel much more relaxed with Miranda barely a foot away.

  
“So what did you want to talk about, Andréa?”

  
Unfortunately for Andy, her inner smartass was still drunk at the wheel.

  
“I don’t know Miranda; how about the weather? Or the price of silk these days? Read any good books lately?”

  
She held her breath as she waited for a response. That it was a chuckle from Miranda almost blew Andy’s mind.

  
“You want to talk about that damn trade. Shouldn’t you be getting your little notebook out?”

  
There was confrontation in the words: throwing down the gauntlet and seeing if Andy would accept.

  
“I told you, I can be off the record. If you want me to be.”

  
Miranda snorted, contempt once again radiating from her.

  
“Oh yes, Andréa. I tell you all my deep, dark secrets and complain about how the press are treating me, only to find it all in tomorrow’s Mirror. That sounds like a wonderful idea.”

  
Bristling at the accusation, Andy placed her glass to one side, not trusting herself to react calmly.

  
“I would never do that. I would never betray a confidence. I would never betray you.”

  
Miranda fixed her with one of her mocking glares, and suddenly time reeled back to Paris, to the back seat of a Mercedes in elaborate black dresses. Andy saw the words forming on Miranda’s lips all over again, wincing as she spoke each painful one.

  
“You already have.”

  
Paris, goddamn fucking Paris. Everyone else went there and had the most romantic few days of their lives, or at least had a comically bad experience that made for interesting stories to tell. Andy had come back with something akin to post-traumatic stress, having turned her whole life inside out with a split-second decision. She’d checked the photo archives in her first week at the Mirror, thinking of the paparazzi on those steps, needing in some masochistic way to see Miranda’s reaction for herself.

  
The hurt, the snarling confusion and anger on Miranda’s frozen expressions had stunned Andy, leaving her racked with guilt no matter how many times she told herself that leaving was the smartest, safest thing she could have done.

  
And now Miranda sat there leveling this accusation, and Andy had no defense that would stand up to scrutiny.

  
“It wasn’t a betrayal, Miranda. We both know it was right for me to go.”

  
Miranda gave no indication that she might agree, her gaze as stony as Andy had ever seen it.

  
“You were offering me something, I don’t really know what, but it required making a choice. I couldn’t choose that path because I wasn’t supposed to be on it in the first place.”

  
Draining her second glass, Miranda shrugged in her delicate way. It was barely a lift of her shoulders, but it was an acknowledgment, nonetheless.

  
“You can see why I might have trouble trusting you?”

  
Andy nodded, unsure of how to convince Miranda, who had gotten to her feet.

  
“And I’ll admit you haven’t technically betrayed me-- not yet. But you will; of course you will. Once there’s no more story to get-- once I’m no longer useful to you. That’s how people work.”

  
Well, that might be how Miranda worked, but Andy didn’t care to be thought of in such unfair terms. She stood up too, literally standing up to Miranda in a way she had never dared to attempt before.

  
“I don’t care about the stupid stories.”

  
Danger, Will Robinson. So much danger that someone should be wearing protective gear. Miranda looked skeptical at Andy’s announcement, which had the unfortunate effect of spurring her on.

  
“I mean it, I don’t need to write another word about it. I’m a good writer, Miranda. Someone was bound to notice someday, with or without your very public disgrace.”

  
Miranda turned toward her with something like disbelief on her face, although whether at the sentiment or Andy’s nerve, Andy couldn’t really say. She felt a chill down her spine, aware that she could be in the process of making a huge mistake. And yet, she stepped closer, like there were magnets in the soles of her $600 shoes, drawing her to Miranda and her spine of steel. Just as Andy feared she might be invading Miranda’s personal space a little too much, Miranda raised a hand to stop her. Andy was amazed to note that the fingers were trembling slightly. Miranda spoke again, perhaps to distract them both.

  
“Then it’s not about what you might gain from it. You’re just scared of what I can do to you.”

  
Andy gave a shallow little laugh.

  
“I’m not scared of you, Miranda.”

  
Unbelievable though it seemed to her in that moment, Andy actually meant those words. She still felt nervous around Miranda, awkward in so many ways, but the pulse-racing, mouth-drying, trembling fear had gone once and for all. She’d first felt the shift the other day in Miranda’s office, but it almost blew her mind to realize the change might be permanent.

  
Having lived and breathed her job for almost a year, Andy didn’t believe all the horror stories about Miranda’s frosty grip on the New York publishing industry. For every five fawning acolytes, there was at least one earnest editor who didn’t believe the editor of Runway could dictate their hiring choices. Andy was now confident that John was among that number.

  
With no other way to prove her point, Andy reached out as though moving in slow-motion and took Miranda’s cool hand in her own. Their joined hands dropped down to hip height, with Miranda staring as though unable to believe what she was seeing. For her own part, Andy could hear nothing beyond the thundering of her heart in her chest, an entirely new and not a little bit delicious kind of fear suddenly gripping her. She’d crossed another line, run across it really, and had no intention of looking back. Before she could say more, Miranda withdrew her hand.

  
Not violently, and not without something that looked like regret flickering across Miranda’s face. Miranda cleared her throat gently, and then spoke as softly as ever, her tone measured and precise.

  
“I think you’d better go. For now.”

  
To push any further would be disaster, Andy knew. Not that she knew quite which direction she’d be pushing in. A grand gesture to prove her courage didn’t mean anything, really. Not that the Inappropriate Crush feelings seemed to acknowledge that. They were currently conducting something that felt like a carnival with her hormones, her whole body suddenly singing from the simple act of taking Miranda’s hand.

  
The ‘for now’ was promising, Andy reasoned, and she nodded her assent. Without delaying another second, she left the study and jogged downstairs toward the front door. She couldn’t help lingering a few long seconds in the foyer, the reflective crystals of the chandelier making her think of Miranda’s eyes and the unshed tears that had accompanied her announcement about her daughters. Shaking off the distraction, she accepted that there would be no change of heart from Miranda and simply slipped out into the night.

  
She hadn’t blown it. Faced with the most impossible of subjects, Andy Sachs was still in the race for a career-making story. And if that meant getting to care a little about Miranda along the way, well that didn’t exactly hurt.

  
Checking her phone, Andy felt the alcohol finally beginning to wear off. She’d deal with Doug and Lily and the rest of the world in the morning. The rest of tonight was reserved for freaking out about exactly how great it had felt to touch Miranda. It had almost been worth all the panic.

  



	5. 5A

The weeks slipped past almost without Andy noticing. She was busier than ever in the newsroom, and apart from the occasional press release regarding the investigation into Wisteria (and by extension, Miranda) she was occupied with the rest of New York life, from the sensational to the mundane.

  
News of the indictment, when it came down on a Friday morning, was crackling around the city like an electric current, lighting up malicious smiles wherever it went. _Schadenfreude_ was alive and thriving in Manhattan as ever. Everyone wanted to speculate on whether Miranda would end up with her own Camp Cupcake stay, and within minutes the email forwards with cruel jokes and suggestions were flying. Andy would have been more impressed if they weren’t all simply recycled jokes about Martha Stewart--she’d come to respect a little originality in her cruelty.

Oh, not that Miranda deserved endless sympathy. The enemies she’d created could band together and form a  
decent-sized army, not to mention the thousands of people who held the fashion industry in complete contempt. Still, Andy felt the old arguments rising up again: that Miranda wouldn’t be publicly ridiculed this way if she were a man; that people were jealous of her success.

  
Not that Miranda would lose any sleep about public opinion being against her, since there was usually a minimum of three bitchy articles about her circulating at any given time. She wouldn’t suffer professionally because she’d pissed a lot of people off, since she also had so many more willing to ask ‘how high’ every time she whispered ‘jump’.

  
Andy had mentioned in her profile for the _Mirror_ website that Miranda did business in a very traditional New York way--like an old ward boss, she lent her influence and granted favors, leaving hundreds of grateful people in her debt, people who subsequently became powerful in their own right.

  
Which was all too relevant to Miranda’s current situation, since the recently indicted CEO of Wisteria was one such person. Charged with fraud, conspiracy and a multitude of other charges that had become a little too familiar to most Americans since the turn of the century, Katherine Hoffman was facing a lengthy prison sentence and financial ruin.

  
She had once asked Miranda for a favor in starting up her first business. Twenty years later, Miranda had invested in Katherine’s latest venture, a new drug to treat depression specifically in women. Had the investment been made public at the time, Andy found herself making the (bad) joke that an anti-psychotic might be more what Miranda ought to throw her money behind.

  
So, of course, it was assumed that Miranda ducking out just before the share price plummeted was the result of one more favor from Katherine. The reports about Miranda avoiding appointments with the FBI and the US Attorney’s office hadn’t really improved public perception (though it was more likely to be Emily policing anyone but the glitterati from reaching Miranda by phone). Web polls everywhere from the _Post_ to _TMZ_ were gleefully proclaiming their assumption of Miranda’s guilt.

  
Andy still had her doubts, but the same gut feeling that had told her to turn around and say “I don’t fit in here” in Miranda’s office two years ago, was telling her that Miranda was innocent. Though admittedly, any innocence on Miranda’s part was probably a relative concept at best.

  
The more that Andy investigated, the surer she became. Miranda hadn’t done any of the things that would be expected of someone trying to perpetrate a fraud, and she’d confirmed as much with a reluctant Doug. He’d helped her out, but not without a serious telling off for dumping Simon at the drop of a hat, and a warning not to become Miranda’s ‘bitch’ again. Not the most pleasant evening of her life, Andy mused, but he’d been warming up over email again so the storm seemed to have passed.

  
Arranging a lunch date with Irv’s assistant, Marjorie, had been a necessary evil, and one Andy wanted to get out of the way as soon as possible. Andy almost felt guilty for praying that Irv was as demanding a boss as Miranda, and thus be likely to interrupt at some point. For her part, she had Lily primed to call after thirty minutes with a fake emergency, like they did for the worst possible blind dates.

  
Andy’s silent prayer had been answered just as the salads arrived at the table, with Irv barking loudly enough over the cell phone connection for half the small restaurant to hear. Marjorie had scurried off into the midtown lunch hour crush, but not before leaving Andy with some valuable information.

  
Irv had been the one to rat Miranda out. Marjorie assumed, like just about everyone else, that to work for Miranda was to hate her and so she thought her indiscretion would be a reward of sorts for Andy. Little did Marjorie know that it left Andy with a strong urge to punch Irv right in his unconvincing hair plugs.

  
So, when Irv had lost out by not selling when Miranda did, a day before the company announced that the FDA wasn’t going to approve its flagship drug, and that they were being sued for patent infringement into the bargain, Irv hadn’t looked very far for someone to take his half a million dollar loss out on. He hadn’t even been discreet enough to do it himself--he’d had Marjorie contact the US Attorney and the SEC to have them add Miranda as a person of interest in their investigation into the public failure of Katherine Hoffman’s company.

  
Andy was lost in thought when her phone finally did ring, picking idly at her chef's salad as Lily began to regale her with the most ridiculous fake emergency she could think of. In hopeless laughter by the time Lily got to “and the elephants have escaped,” Andy was overwhelmed with gratitude for her friends. She was definitely not going to throw all this away to be at Miranda’s beck and call again, though the woman herself hadn’t been in touch except for a couple of pointed emails regarding the _Mirror_’s coverage.

  
When she arrived back at the office, John was hovering by her desk. Andy panicked, almost out of habit, before remembering that she had actually been working and that lunches longer than fifteen minutes were not a hanging offense at the _Mirror_.

  
Josh was working away with his earphones plugged in, but he shot her a curious glance as she approached which meant he was favoring eavesdropping over actual music. Andy couldn’t pretend that she’d be any different.

  
Andy barely had time to drop her bag on her desk before John was off and running with questions about Miranda’s indictment. In between interviews that day, Andy had fleshed out a new piece on it, but was wary of presuming she’d be asked. John was explaining, in his droll but animated way, that he wanted her to work with the court reporters and start pulling together something for the morning edition.

  
“And Andy, if you were to take advantage of your _sources_ again, well, it wouldn’t hurt to leave the _Times_ quoting us again, you understand?”

  
She respected her editor tremendously, Andy thought. Apart from his generally fair running of the paper, and his willingness to take a chance on a new reporter, he still had that gleam in his eye over the big stories. She wondered how much John missed the writing side of things, and tried not to compare his occasional unease in the position with Miranda’s reveling in her complete control. Miranda, who had impossibly soft hands but who ruled three floors and most of an industry with an iron fist. Miranda, who hadn’t called since Andy grabbed her hand, and from whom Andy now needed more information.

  
She put her thoughts about Irv to one side for now, smiling at John as he departed for the relative sanctuary of his own office. Andy pulled out her cell and paused for a moment over which number to dial. She had Miranda’s cell and private lines, of course, but as far as she could tell the arrangement to go through Emily still stood.

  
Punching in the numbers from memory, without need for her contacts list, Andy waited the scant two rings before Emily’s abrupt voice uttered its familiar “Miranda Priestly’s office.” Andy had once heard that every night in her dreams, and it didn’t seem so very long ago.

  
“Hi Em, it’s Andy again. I wanted to see if I could get some time with Miranda, to discuss the uh, recent developments?”

  
Andy cursed her nerves again, her palms were sweating as though she was asking someone to take her to prom.

  
“Oh yes, Andrea. Miranda left instructions for when you called. Check your email in a moment or two.”

  
No explanation, and then hanging up without goodbye. Emily was getting more like Miranda by the day.

  
Not that the rejection didn’t sting a little, and it only got worse when Andy opened her email to find nothing more than a standard press release in which Miranda expressed hope that she would be cleared of all charges, etc. So much for Andy’s inside track.

  
Disheartened, she began typing up the copious notes she’d made during her interviews, cultivating the parts that would form her new article on the indictment. There was a good chance of another front page here, and Andy couldn’t let Miranda’s sudden reticence pull her off course.

  
Sure enough, she had a few as yet unused quotes that she could fold in to an explanation of what exactly Miranda could expect at the hands of a federal judge. Andy’s zeal to clear Miranda’s name had dimmed somewhat, but as she lost herself in the story, lining up words for selection and the countless other choices needed to make the piece sing, she forgot most of her bad mood.

  
Filing just before the first deadline, Andy was ready to leave when Josh came back from wherever he had wandered off to late in the afternoon. She almost considered asking him out for a drink, but exhaustion was already clouding her head, and honestly her life was complicated enough. He asked to read her story, without any apparent jealousy, and Andy called it back onto the screen for him.

  
“This is pretty good, Woodward.”

  
A lame joke, they’d taken to calling themselves the Woodward and Bernstein of the _Mirror_, having honed their investigative skills on finding the best $1 hotdogs and the least crowded Starbucks within walking distance of their building. Only now, Andy didn’t feel as though she was ‘playing’ at being a journalist anymore, even as she worried about exactly how compromised this damn story was making her.

  
“You need any help on this?”

  
It was the first time someone had expressed an interest in anything other than ripping Miranda to shreds, and Andy was grateful for it. She was ready to say thanks but no thanks, when a thought occurred to her.

  
“Maybe. You still hooking up with that crazy girl in IT?”

  
Josh feigned offense at that, clutching his chest in mock outrage.

  
“How dare you discuss my future wife that way? And yeah, we see each other sometimes, when she’s not you know, performing ritual sacrifices or whatever.”

  
Andy tapped her lips with her index finger, wondering whether or not to bring anyone else in. No going back if she did.

  
“Okay, cool. Well, I might need you to ask her a favor. I’ll know for sure in a couple of days.”

  
With a shrug, Josh ran his fingers through his floppy blond hair and leaned back in Andy’s chair.

  
“I’ll be holding my breath.”

  
Andy punched him affectionately on the arm and grabbed her bag, ready to call an end to this particularly trying day. She supposed that, at 26, the highlight of her week shouldn’t be a chance to flop out with pizza in front of reality TV, but damned if she had the energy for anything else.

  
Wednesday came around too quickly for Andy’s liking, though she’d had a great talk with her parents over the weekend and had gathered up a bunch of copies of the weekend edition with her front page to send to them. Normally a Saturday front page was nothing to get excited about, but circulation was through the roof, and John had requested a fuller version to run on Monday when everyone read the paper.

  
Still, Wednesday meant a court date for Miranda, and thus a court date for Andy. She hadn’t been to the US District Court before, and hadn’t wanted to ask her slightly disgruntled colleagues for help. Josh was her only real work friend, but he’d never covered this big a story before either. However, John had offered the challenge, and Andy wasn’t about to turn it down.

  
The press pack in Foley Square was like nothing Andy had ever experienced before. Louder and more frantic than even the wildest concerts she’d been dragged to in college, she found herself being jostled and shoved over and over again. She had gotten there early, and was now pressed up against the makeshift metal barrier which seemed too flimsy to hold back the assembled throng of reporters who were surging _en masse_ behind and on both sides of Andy.

  
Cameras and boom mics were swinging wildly with no regard for the bodies packed around them, and Andy found herself wondering how someone as petite as Miranda could withstand this kind of onslaught to get into the damn building. Andy had been hit in the head by flailing elbows and digital recorders three times already, and was beginning to lose patience for the front line when Miranda’s trademark Mercedes appeared at the curb outside the courthouse.

  
In that moment, Andy forgot about her bruised ribs and compromised breathing, about the glares she’d received from the _Mirror’s_ usual court reporters when John had announced she’d be taking their place on the steps, leaving room for only one of them inside, in the court pool. All that mattered was seeing Miranda, and she did not disappoint. Stepping from the car with her usual brisk grace, she was a vision in neat Armani pinstripes and Prada heels red enough to be the exact shade of blood. He hair was coiffed a little more severely, with the regulation single curl falling over her ever-present sunglasses.

  
Any difficulty Andy had breathing was absolutely not related to the pressure on her torso.

  
Miranda made her way efficiently through the surging bodies and up the steps, never hesitating or faltering, flanked by a gang of lawyers in expensive suits, and what had to be bodyguards parting the crowd as though it were water. For the briefest of seconds, Miranda’s eyes roved the gaggle of reporters, her lips twitching slightly as she caught sight of Andy. Being acknowledged in that way left Andy feeling light-headed, but she settled in for the wait, knowing a simple arraignment wouldn’t take too much of the court’s time.

  
Sure enough, in less than half an hour Miranda and her entourage were streaming out of the courthouse doors. The crowd that had backed off temporarily surged around Andy once more, and this time she was seriously worried about cracking a rib or two.

  
Questions were being screamed across the limited space between the steps and Miranda’s waiting car, but she didn’t seem to hear a single one. Her face looked as though it had been delicately sculpted from marble, with not even a flash of emotion crossing it. But for the chaos surrounding her, Miranda looked as though she could just as easily have been having a pedicure, such was her level of disinterest. Whether it was the Inappropriate Crush (which should _really_ shut up) speaking or not, Andy had to give her ex-boss some major kudos for that.

  
The crowd began to dissipate, reporters yelling into their phones as they conferred with colleagues inside, while Miranda slipped into the car with Stephanie, the men in her entourage forming a guard around the closed door until the engine revved into life and pulled away from the curb. It had been necessary too, the more persistent reporters had been crushing closer to Miranda with every step she had taken. But for the suits, they’d have been pressed up against the windows and banging on the roof. Andy had heard all about the pressures of making any kind of living as a photographer, but at times she couldn’t help but hate the paparazzi.

  
Andy extricated herself from the remaining crowd, pushing and shoving as roughly as she’d been subjected to all morning. Just as she broke free, a strong hand grabbed her upper arm. Tensing automatically, she was ready to unleash her best self-defense moves when she realized that she knew the man who had grabbed her: Brad.

  
He looked worn out, seeming to have aged ten years in a few weeks, and his long, black hair was mussed from the ruckus. Andy found herself wondering how much of a bonus he was being paid to go from swiping passes in the lobby to running interference for Miranda these past few weeks. Probably not anywhere near enough, knowing Miranda’s approach to paying her staff.

  
“Hey Andy. Miranda told me to make sure you get out of that mess. And she’ll pick you up at the corner of Mulberry and Bayard in five.”

  
Oh, so now Miranda felt like talking? There was no friendliness in his face as he imparted the message, and Andy couldn’t blame Brad if he resented the role of errand boy, but then nobody would be all smiles after dealing with a crazed pack of journalists. Thankfully she knew the streets around there pretty well, and so she gave him the brightest smile she could muster and took off towards Columbus Park.

  
Even at not-quite-a-run, Andy didn’t make it to the appointed meeting place as quickly as she would have liked. Miranda’s Mercedes was already idling as she crossed the street. Andy tried not to dwell on what Brad had said first, that Miranda had wanted her out of that clusterfuck by the courthouse steps. Was that simply because Miranda wanted Andy ready to be collected, like yesterday’s dry cleaning? Or had there been a note of concern in the request?

  
Andy shook her head at the very thought, trying to remember if she’d suffered any head trauma that would cause such idiotic notions. She wasn’t some wide-eyed gopher anymore, trying to get the boss to see how special she was. This was business, pure and simple, and it didn’t matter one tiny bit if occasionally she dreamt about her current business ‘partner’ in varying states of undress. That probably happened all the time on Wall Street, Andy told herself, not at all convincingly.

  
Then there wasn’t any more time to think about the Miranda who showed up in restless dreams, because the door handle was under her fingers, presenting her with the living, breathing Miranda who was somehow every bit as ethereal.

  
Stephanie had been relegated to the front seat, next to a driver Andy didn’t recognize. Not every chauffeur met Miranda’s exacting standards after all, and Roy couldn’t be forced to work twenty-four hours a day. So a new face or two was inevitable. At Miranda’s impatient nod, Andy slid into the backseat and closed the door firmly. Her nervousness made it more like a slam, but Miranda said nothing beyond a split-second wince at the noise.

  
The young guy at the wheel pulled the car sharply out into traffic, and Andy grimaced, because he probably wouldn’t last long. Sudden moves like that could jolt a cup of Starbucks all over Miranda’s papers, or cause a slight disturbance in artfully styled hair, and when that did happen, Miranda would dismiss him without a second thought.

  
Offering a weak smile over her shoulder, Stephanie busied herself with the papers in her briefcase, typing frantically into her Blackberry as she slipped back into a world where Andy didn’t exist.

  
Before the silence could cross from uncomfortable straight into oppressive, Andy decided to risk breaking it.

  
“Was it as bad as you expected?”

  
Miranda sighed almost inaudibly, her fingers playing idly with the pearl necklace that hung around her neck. Her sunglasses had already been discarded, lying on the expanse of gray leather seat between her and Andy.

  
“It was as I expected, yes. Did you enjoy being part of the baying mob?”

  
Andy watched Miranda’s face carefully, but still not a shred of emotion had flickered across it. Conscious that  
she was staring, Andy floundered for something to say.

  
“Well, I’ve been in better. No flaming torches, for a start.”

  
Stephanie’s spine went rigid at that, and Andy could have sworn the attorney was holding her breath in anticipation of Miranda’s response. Even the driver seemed suddenly tense.

  
Instead Miranda seemed to bite back whichever sarcastic remark she’d been preparing, and Andy recognized the grudging respect that showing a little backbone had earned. Would wonders never cease?

  
Andy chewed at her lip for a moment, wondering why she was being drive through Manhattan in Miranda’s car when she could be filing an initial report at the _Mirror_. Fortunately, Miranda was still as efficient as ever, and came to the point almost right away.

  
“You’ll need a pen, I assume? That is, if you want my reaction to all of this? Since every other hack is busy making something up right about now.”

  
Was Miranda really giving her another exclusive so easily? Andy hadn’t seen her in person since drunkenly storming her house about a misunderstanding. The emails about stories that had appeared in the paper had simply been corrections or expressions of Miranda’s continual displeasure at anything that wasn’t entirely under her control.

  
Fumbling for her notebook and pen, Andy made a quick heading and began marshaling the questions in her head.

  
“So, do you want to start with the charges?”

  
Miranda pursed her lips at the bluntness, but she could hardly complain when it was her own MO reflected back at her.

  
“Stephanie will give you copies of the charges: securities fraud, obstruction of justice, giving false statements, etc.”

  
Andy scribbled frantically, her recorder rolling quietly as it sat on her thigh. Securities fraud was pretty serious. Sure, the other charges had been enough to result in jail time and massive fines in previous cases, but if the Feds thought they could actually get Miranda on insider trading, well, damn.

  
She would let the “etc” go for now, because Stephanie handed a slim black folder to her that no doubt contained the specifics Andy would need. Right now, Andy had to keep Miranda talking. And she also had to try not to look at her for more than a few seconds, because every time she saw the tightness in Miranda’s face, the carefully averted gaze, and the tension in her shoulders, Andy felt a completely ridiculous urge to hug her former boss. A move that would surely get her thrown out into moving traffic.

  
“Did they make you surrender your passport?”

  
Paris Fashion week was coming up, Andy knew. An event that had once meant less than nothing to her was somehow imprinted into her brain for the fall. A twisted little anniversary, of sorts, for her and Miranda.

  
Miranda fixed Andy with a particularly vicious glare, but Andy saw the flutter of panic beneath it.

  
“No, the judge was sympathetic to the nature of my job. I’m to give 72 hours notice before leaving the country.”

  
The very idea of asking anyone for permission to do as she wished brought a flush of anger to Miranda’s cheeks, visible even through her flawless makeup. The thought of her not being in Paris in the fall was just unbearable. For the sake of everyone who worked under Miranda, Andy was grateful that the judge hadn’t been too harsh. She could imagine that weasel Irv Ravitz using it as leverage to finally get rid of Miranda, and the fallout from that would be unbelievable.

  
“Well, it could have been worse?” Andy ventured. An eye-roll was Miranda’s only response, and so Andy decided to soldier on.

  
“So, what’s your statement, Miranda? Is it finally time for the big ‘I didn’t do it’?”

  
Stephanie intervened at that point, warning Miranda in harsh tones that she shouldn’t comment on anything but the established facts of the case. Her reprimand veered into a lecture, but the lawyer didn’t seem to register the further cooling of Miranda’s eyes, or the more pronounced pursing of her lips. When Stephanie finally shut up, Andy looked away, staring out of the tinted window in uncomfortable anticipation.

  
“Stop the car.”

  
Hardly louder than a murmur, but the other three occupants of the vehicle heard the words as clearly as if they’d been broadcast over speakers. The driver complied immediately, pulling over and narrowly avoiding a bike messenger in the process. Andy contained her gasp as the cyclist sped by, flipping them off for their trouble.

  
“We’re not far from your office, Stephanie. Why don’t you leave Andréa and I to chat?”

  
By now, Andy knew New York well enough to estimate that they were at least ten blocks from Stephanie’s firm, and the lawyer looked back at Miranda as though stunned. Was she seriously throwing her out of the car?

  
Miranda, as ever, did not flinch and so Stephanie resigned herself to her fate. She shot Andy a ‘better you than me’ look before leaving the front seat with a scowl. Andy watched Stephanie hail a cab as Miranda instructed their driver to carry on.

  
Andy actually felt better for being as good as alone with Miranda. She’d tried so hard not to dismiss people as servants, like Miranda did, but it had become habit to tune out the drivers and nannies and other staff so easily, and Andy found herself picking up exactly where she had left off.

  
At least venting some of her anger on Stephanie seemed to have calmed Miranda a little. Her shoulders seemed to have slightly less tension in them, and her previously clenched fist now lay slack on her lap. Andy didn’t realize she was staring at Miranda’s extended fingers until a quiet “hmm?” interrupted her.

  
_Shit._

  
When Miranda was the one to break the sudden silence, Andy feared the worst. It really didn’t help that Miranda simultaneously flicked the button to slide the privacy screen up. The thought of actually being alone with Miranda rendered Andy temporarily deaf, and she missed every word the editor said.

  
Conscious of her mouth hanging open like a fool, Andy forced herself to snap back to reality, cringing as she quietly asked Miranda to repeat herself. The roaring in her ears had definitely subsided, and Andy watched Miranda’s mouth carefully, anything to avoid meeting her eyes.

  
“I _said_, the girls haven’t called.”

  
Wow, talk about a really crappy thing to make someone say twice. Miranda was looking past Andy in that way she had, not exactly avoiding eye contact, but clearly with her thoughts elsewhere. Miranda’s usually vibrant dark-blue eyes were dimmed and lifeless, almost as gray as her signature eyeshadow. Andy knew she had to think of something, anything, to get some kind of spark back into them.

  
“Well, maybe they thought you wouldn’t want to be interrupted? I’m sure their dad told them how busy a day you’d be having. They’ll call later, I’m sure. Or…you could call them.”

  
It brought a flicker of emotion back into Miranda’s eyes at least, but nothing approaching happiness. The sneer at the idea of needing attention or affection, even from her own children, told Andy that Miranda was in no mood to show weakness. Not that she ever was. And in that moment, even if she had to harass the Priestly twins herself, Andy knew she would find a way to make that call happen. Maybe she could persuade the twins that they really wanted to go home. Which, considering she hadn’t seen them in over a year, and they only knew her as another disposable assistant of ‘Mommy’, was going to be one hell of a challenge.

  
She’d do it anyway.

  
Then Miranda’s phone rang, shattering the fresh cloud of quietness between them. Professional mask firmly back on, Miranda began berating Emily, or whoever the new girl was, about exactly why Meisel was not to be canceled and something incredibly detailed about slingbacks that Andy didn’t even pretend to listen to. Instead she took the opportunity to really look at Miranda, something she’d always been too scared to do on the rare occasions they’d shared such a small space before.

  
She saw the surface glamour, of course. The expensive fabrics draped over Miranda’s slight frame didn’t crease or wrinkle, they just adapted to the seated shape of her body. Her crossed legs were covered in sheer black stockings, a sight Andy forced her eyes away from before she could start wondering about thigh highs versus garter belts. No wedding ring today, in fact Miranda’s left hand was bare as she stroked it aimlessly across her pin-striped skirt. There was a hint of an ornate watch at the edge of her sleeve, but Andy found the superficial wasn’t holding her attention for now.

  
Instead she drank in the sight of Miranda’s elegant neck, tapering off into the dark flashes of her hairline, which in turn gave way to the world-famous silver strands that looked far too appealing for Andy’s suddenly restless fingers. What would it feel like to run her fingers through Miranda’s hair? To kiss the sometimes cruel, but apparently soft, lips beneath those cool eyes and proud nose?

  
But all too soon the reprieve was over, and Miranda snapped her phone shut with enough force to break it. When Miranda reached for her sunglasses, Andy was powerless to stop her own hand from shooting out to meet Miranda’s.

  
“Don’t.”

  
Miranda’s voice was a steely whisper, but she made no retreat, allowing the warm skin of Andy’s hand to cover hers. Andy risked a gentle squeeze, drunk once more on the sheer sensation of it.

  
“Please, don’t.”

  
Then Andy dared to look Miranda in the eye, and was shocked to see the hint of tears shimmering there. She wasn’t sure which she expected least: the tears, or the word ‘please’. Either way, Andy was officially through the damn looking glass.

  
“I—want to, Miranda.”

  
But Miranda could look past what people wanted, what people needed, and that included herself. She withdrew her hand at last, cradling it protectively against her stomach as though Andy might snatch it back.

  
“You want a story, don’t you?”

  
Which was when Andy pieced it together: Miranda couldn’t allow herself even that moment of comfort. Accepting sympathy from another person was to admit defeat in her strange little world. Or perhaps she was worried that any kindness, something she had all but removed from her life, would finally cause some kind of dam to break.

  
Shrugging in agreement, Andy readied her pen once more.

  



	6. 5B

The article was, predictably, another triumph. Miranda had gone on the record with actual feelings about the past few weeks, and though she had been careful not to say anything too specific, it read as incredibly candid. Okay, Andy qualified to herself: candid for Miranda. Maybe Andy herself had pulled out all the stops to make it read that way in a more universal sense, but that was a journalist’s job right? Andy had kind of impressed herself, but then wasn’t it always easier to write well when you cared about the subject matter?

  
The point for denying that she cared had evaporated some time in that car ride back to Elias-Clarke. Miranda was resuming her day as though her arraignment had been no more than a pedicure appointment, and Andy could easily get back to her own office from there, after all. Once at her desk, trying to forget the inscrutable look Miranda had given her upon leaving the car, Andy had bashed the keys of her computer like a woman possessed. The story had almost written itself, and with some minimal corrections, she was free to enjoy her evening.

  
So maybe the first thing she’d done was check her old Runway contacts for Cara’s phone number; maybe that was just what someone did when they cared, despite really trying not to. Anyway, there was no guarantee, that Cara was even still the nanny for the Priestly twins. But she was, and so after the briefest of catch-ups, Andy begged for the one favor that might turn Miranda’s day around. Cara warned that neither Caroline nor Cassidy did anything unless they wanted to, but a few hours later Cara was thoughtful enough to send a text confirming that the girls had in fact called their mother.

  
The glow of satisfaction was almost as noticeable as when she’d filed her story, Andy thought to herself. She lounged around on her lumpy but comfortable sofa, a happy fashion disaster in sweatpants and a tank top that had gone a strange sort of beige after a laundry mishap. No need for designer labels when nobody was around to see her.

  
Getting back into her investigation notes, Andy sipped at a glass of fairly decent red wine (a birthday present from Doug instead of the $9 bottles she usually had on hand) and sighed upon realizing that all roads led to Stephen Tomlinson. He was the only other person in Miranda’s life who had half a chance of knowing about her financial dealings, having been the other name on a joint checking account for four years, as well as a broker with some thirty years’ experience.

  
She couldn’t really claim to have the whole story without speaking to him, but every time Andy considered it, she felt a jolt of lingering shock and rage from the benefit, replaying his pathetic behavior over and over in her head. From the drunken yelling to the cowardly way he’d dropped a divorce on Miranda at the worst possible time, he hadn’t once done anything to endear himself to Andy. Not to mention that on the few times Andy had been forced to interact with him, he’d eyed her in the same way that Miranda would look at a new pair of Louboutins.

  
Had she always hated him this fiercely? Or was it simply another symptom of the seriously Inappropriate Crush? Either way, Andy wasn’t looking forward to putting herself in his dull, smarmy company. She could only imagine the relief Miranda must be feeling at finally being rid of him. Andy thought of that near-fatal interruption, of the not-quite-sincere way Miranda had pleaded for forgiveness. Had Stephen believed her? Had they made up passionately after Andy had fled the townhouse in fear? Something about the thought made the wine taste a little more acidic on the way down, and Andy shrugged it off as best she could.

  
She postponed contacting him until morning, spending a little more time working through what she’d gathered on Irv. Confident that his ratting Miranda out was a product of revenge rather than consciously setting Miranda up, Andy was ready to relegate him to filler status. The thought did cross her mind to exact some form of retaliation, but surely Miranda would enjoy doing that herself, once she was aware of his transgression.

  
That night Andy had an unsettled sleep, which featured Miranda and handcuffs way too prominently for her to maintain any kind of sanity. Awake before five, she was too cranky and frustrated to push thoughts of Miranda from her mind, and as she rode her own impatient fingers to a satisfactory orgasm, she could almost hear a breathy whisper of ‘Andréa’ over her own stifled moans. Without even summer heat to blame it on, with the crisp chill of fall already in the air, Andy fell back into a fitful nap with her head buried under the pillow. She was rapidly going around the bend.

  
Stumbling into work feeling almost hungover, Andy felt her clouds lift as soon as she saw her article in print. Dangerous though it might be, she was starting to get used to her elevated status. Everyone in the room wanted to congratulate her, or at least to ask pointed questions that barely disguised their resentment. Josh was waiting with a celebratory Danish, and it almost made up for the heresy of getting her an apricot one—definitely her last choice.

  
Finally getting some peace, Andy began calling around a few more contacts until she couldn’t postpone calling Stephen’s assistant any longer. She was surprised when his assistant asked Andy to hold, before a deep baritone on the other end confirmed that Mr. Tomlinson himself wanted to speak with her.

  
“You’re the kid who’s been writing these articles on my ex-wife, right?”

  
Andy didn’t much feel like pointing out that the ex- part was not yet official. No doubt Stephen had checked out of the marriage as soon as the papers had been sent.

  
“That’s right, and I was wondering if we could arrange a time to chat?”

  
He was hesitant at first, cagey about his obligations and rambling on at length about how important guys like him couldn’t drop everything to chat to some pretty reporter. Hating herself for doing it, Andy knew she had to try and get a leg up in this particular negotiation.

  
“Oh I know how busy you must be, Mr. Tomlinson. When I worked for Miranda I always thought she was so inconsiderate of the demands of your job.”

  
Andy heard the sharp intake of breath she’d been banking on. She continued.

  
“You probably won’t remember me, with the way she treats her assistants. We’re as disposable as last season’s skirts.”

  
The bitterness in Andy’s tone wasn’t hard to conjure up. Though she felt some thawing in her relationship with Miranda, the countless injustices and days that ended in exhausted tears hadn’t escaped her memory entirely.

  
“I get it, kid.” God, his patronizing tone was starting to push Andy firmly back into Miranda’s camp. “So is it fair to say that you’re looking for a little payback? Maybe you won’t be so impartial in your next article?”

  
He chuckled as if they were sharing some private joke, and it made Andy sick to her stomach. Since there was no way she could risk alienating him, and with the story in mind, she faked a soft little laugh. Probably not the first woman to fake a reaction around a douche like this, Andy mused.

  
“Well, if anybody knows the _real_ story, Mr. Tomlinson—“

  
“You can call me Stephen. Now, Andy, how about you meet me on Tuesday?”

  
Andy flipped to the depressingly blank space on her calendar. This story was leaving her schedule even more bleak than usual.

  
“That would be fantastic, Stephen. Should I come by the office at a certain time?”

  
“Let’s say the St. Regis, eight o’clock?”

  
Crap.

  
Andy knew she had only piqued his interest by implying that Miranda was in for a tough time; could she jeopardize this progress by insisting on professionalism? After all, journalists met sources in hotels all the time. It wasn’t any worse than meeting them in a Starbucks, and probably a hell of a lot more discreet. With a gulp, Andy decided to carry on.

  
“The King Cole bar? I’ll see you there.”

  
Muttering pleasantries, Andy was grateful to end the call. Banging her head on the desk, she narrowly avoided getting apricot jam in her hair. Josh retrieved the neglected pastry with a pout, wolfing it down himself in three bites.

  
“Got yourself a date there? You don’t look too thrilled.”

  
Resisting the urge to throw her stapler at him, Andy offered her blandest smile.

  
“Not a date, Bernstein—a lead. A necessary evil.”

  
Josh shrugged, his eyes already wandering back to his own laptop screen.

  
“Just let me know when you need to speak to Judy the geek, okay? ‘Cause I’m thinking of breaking up with her pretty soon.”

  
Great, thought Andy, just another looming deadline in the story of her career. She was almost beginning to wish Miranda had forgotten her damn number, right up until she opened the paper’s website and saw her own name beaming back at her from the front page.

  
\- - - - - - - - - - -

  
The weekend was destined to be another quiet one, until Lily called on Saturday evening to proclaim her newly single status.

  
“Get one of those fancy, slutty dresses out of your closet! We are going dancing tonight.”

  
A hundred excuses lined up, but Andy dismissed them all. After a long soak in the tub and the requisite transformation at the hands of Bobbi Brown and the Marc Jacobs dress she’d only worn once before, to some party that Miranda had attended for all of fifteen minutes. The midnight blue fabric looked pretty damn good against Andy’s pale skin, and when coupled with slightly wild hair and smoky eyes, she reckoned she looked hotter than she had in a long time. Even Emily would struggle to find fault with this ensemble. With one last look at how the beads on the halter neck strap and the bust caught the light, Andy grabbed her purse and headed out.

  
Lily agreed with Andy’s self-assessment, greeting Andy with her first cocktail of the night and a loud ‘wow’ as she approached the bar. The drink was impossibly blue and tasted of pure alcohol, so Andy did what any self-respecting party girl would do and drained it in one.

  
“Thanks Lils, I needed that.”

  
The bar was a little on the pretentious side, but snagging a corner table, Andy was glad that she could at least hear Lily. Well, if she shouted.

  
It seemed the trustafarian artist had finally decided to give up on his ‘vision’ and join Daddy’s Fortune 500 company after all, which Lily could only interpret as selling out. Andy listened with sympathy and amusement as Lily listed her former boyfriend’s flaws, many of which had been grating on Andy for months. Three of the blue concoctions later, Andy had her buzz on and they were both repeatedly toasting their single status and the great new guys they were going to meet.

  
“Or girls,” Andy added.

  
Lily’s head spun around so fast, Andy thought it might actually complete a full 360º.

  
“Oh did you just… Little Miss Vanilla is going all Ellen on me? You swore that soccer chick in college was a one-time thing. Ha! After all your ‘I like guys, Lils’, the truth finally comes out!”

  
The pout was automatic, the gentle slap to Lily’s arm a little more intentional. Andy pulled her shoulders back and tried to adopt her most dignified pose.

  
“I didn’t say I was a lesbian. I’m just… keeping my options open.”

  
At that Lily pulled her phone out. When Andy cocked a questioning eyebrow, her friend smirked in response.

  
“I’m just texting Dougie. He owes me fifty bucks. I told him, Nate was basically a girl with stubble.”

  
About to protest her friends' gambling over her sex life, Andy was distracted instead by how not freaked out she was. Who even cared about a simple girlcrush anyway? Lily had been as cool about it as she had been with every other secret Andy had confided in the past sixteen years, and that was pretty good for a first attempt at floating the idea. Now that Doug was clued in, she’d basically gotten two for the price of one.

  
When Lily had screamed Doug’s disbelieving response over the thumping music, she declared it time to go dancing for real. Agreeing, Andy followed her friend out into the night, hailing a cab and trying not to think about what Miranda might be doing.

  
Not checking her phone was a luxury Andy rarely afforded herself, but having stood in line for the coat check, she wasn’t carrying anything but a little cash to keep the booze flowing. She didn’t even get to spend it, given the constant stream of guys offering to buy her as many drinks as she might want. Maybe getting dolled up in designer threads and spending more than three minutes on makeup had been worth it after all.

  
The buzz from the dancing (in Vivienne Westwood heels that hadn’t completely killed her feet) and all the flirty attention evaporated as she checked her phone in the cab. One missed called from Miranda. No voicemail, no second attempt in case Andy hadn’t heard it ring. Just three accusatory words that made Andy’s stomach plummet. Singing drunkenly next to her in the backseat, Lily seemed oblivious to the sudden crash of Andy’s mood.

  
She couldn’t return the call at 4:00AM, though she certainly thought about it for longer than was necessary. Deciding to cut her losses, Andy opted for a text. If Miranda didn’t want to be woken, the phone would be on silent, and it was better to show some sort of urgency in the reply. Damn, it was almost as bad as when Andy had worked for her, only now, lying awake for the rest of the night would officially be irrational.

  
To Andy’s surprise she got an almost instant response.

  
I assume you were busy. Will call this afternoon.

  
No signature, no warm words or terms of endearment. Could be the late hour, could be Miranda’s inability to converse in anything but crisp commands, but she didn’t sound mad enough to stop talking to Andy or anything that dramatic. With the smile firmly back on her face, Andy rested her head against the cool glass of the taxi’s window and wished that afternoon would hurry up and arrive.

  
Kicking Lily off the sofa seven hours later wasn’t the most pleasant moment in their friendship, but on regaining consciousness, Lily was happy to flee back to her own apartment. Unable to contain the nervous energy, Andy showered, dressed and took a trip to the deli a few blocks down, checking her phone every five minutes with the ringer set to something near ‘obnoxiously loud’.

  
Of course, Miranda didn’t call until well after three, by which point Andy was bored enough to be working on an article pitch and cleaning the kitchen in alternate bursts. Throwing herself down on the sofa, she tried her hardest to sound nonchalant despite the way that the Inappropriate Crush was causing her heart to pound like a jackhammer.

  
“Hello, Miranda?”

  
Not exactly an auspicious start. Why the questioning tone when Miranda’s name had been quite clearly displayed on the screen? Resisting the urge to smack herself, Andy held her breath until Miranda replied.

  
“Andréa.”

  
The questions and conversation starters that Andy had been thinking about for hours completely deserted her when she needed them most. She wanted to ask about the girls, about _Runway_, anything that might force Miranda to see that she was more than a way of getting a byline. In the midst of her silent flailing, Miranda quite typically took charge of the conversation.

  
“I have a meeting with a court officer and the FBI, at that place of theirs downtown.”

  
Only Miranda could make 26 Federal Plaza sound like a grubby studio apartment, and Andy instinctively winced as she looked around her own.

  
“When’s the meeting?”

  
For a moment, Andy panicked that Miranda was going to refuse to be bothered about details, or humiliatingly hand her off to Emily, but with a sigh the editor continued.

  
“Ten tomorrow morning. Which is of course, completely impractical, but the last time I forced these petty bureaucrats to reschedule they brought charges against me. Perhaps making a concession won’t entirely kill me.”

  
It was more than Andy’s life was worth to point out that a lot more than Miranda’s lack of time for anyone who couldn’t create art out of silk had caused the wrath of the federal government to rain down on her, but Miranda’s martyred self-awareness brought a smile to Andy’s lips.

  
“Why do they want to meet with you? Are they offering you a deal?”

  
She heard some sort of background noise then, one that caused Miranda to cover the phone for a moment. The muffled almost-silence didn’t last long before Miranda returned.

  
“Honestly, Andréa, do you think this is an episode of Law &amp; Order? Why you expect me to know the inner workings of the Justice Department is simply beyond me.”

  
Andy rolled her eyes. Hard. Some things really didn’t change.

  
“First of all, Law &amp; Order is about the NYPD and not the Feds. Second of all, I thought they might tell you why they were hauling you in on a Monday morning.”

  
Miranda gave one of her little ‘hmphs’ of annoyance, but didn’t appear too offended by Andy’s distinct lack of deference around her these days.

  
“They have to ‘book’ me. Fingerprints, a photoshoot, that sort of thing.”

  
“I think you meant ‘mug shot’, there.”

  
A pointed little silence. Sarcasm had been one thing, but actually correcting Miranda Priestly might still have been a capital crime.

  
“Yes, well. You know what I meant. I was thinking about the shoot from Friday—a complete disaster.” Andy, didn’t press, she’d heard Miranda build up a head of steam often enough, and it wasn’t worth interrupting. “I think Meisel is having some kind of midlife crisis and God knows he’ll probably cry when I tell him to reshoot. The world hasn’t stopped turning because I have some legal problems, you see?”

  
Andy did see, though it was something she had to keep reminding herself of. Though she might like it that way most of the time, it was positively masochistic to make the whole world about Miranda, even when she seemingly demanded it.

  
“Well, my notepad and I will meet you there.”

  
Miranda actually _tutted_ at that, as though Andy was a recalcitrant student who refused to see the obvious in front of her.

  
“Who said anything about your notepad? And anyway, this is the 21st century, Andréa, shouldn’t you be taking  
notes on something a little more digital?”

  
Ignoring the equipment advice, Andy slammed straight into a wall of incomprehension at the fact that Miranda didn’t want her to take notes. What the hell?

  
“Then, if I’m not writing about it, why are you asking me?”

  
A silence so complete greeted Andy that she checked (twice) to make sure Miranda hadn’t hung up on her. Eventually, she got her answer.

  
“I can’t bear these lawyers around me all the time. And Emily gets even more nervous, which really shouldn’t be possible, in any kind of official situation like that. I had thought it might be bearable to have someone to talk to: someone who won’t faint from the tension, or spout legal jargon at me. Though you clearly have better things to do, so…”

  
Biting her lip, Andy had become progressively more stunned at Miranda’s little revelation, but no way was she going to let that go unchallenged.

  
“Miranda! If we’re going to um, spend time together, you have to stop conducting both sides of the conversation by yourself. I didn’t say I wouldn’t come. I’ll see you there at ten.”

  
It was apparently enough for Miranda, who murmured in agreement and then ended the call. One of these days, Andy was going to teach her basic phone etiquette, and the thought of being around Miranda enough to do something like that gave her a silly kind of thrill. Not that Andy was deranged enough to think Miranda would actually listen, but it was intriguing nonetheless.

  
The next morning, Andy found herself across the square from the US District courthouse, trying to look as if she belonged there. The building itself was pretty imposing, though Andy was definitely getting more blasé as an adopted New Yorker. Two years ago, she would have craned her neck and gaped at the architecture around her. Today, she sipped at the last of her Starbucks and waited for Miranda’s infamous Mercedes to appear. Besides, the glare from the glass-fronted building was pretty harsh, and she hadn’t thought to pick up sunglasses. Some people didn’t wear them every day, and certainly not in September.

  
Miranda emerged from the car, holding up traffic on the busy street, and two suits scrambled to follow her. She ascended the steps as gracefully as though she were attending a ball, and nodded a greeting to Andy, before turning a sneer on the lime-green knot of benches. It must be painful, going through life with an aesthetic sense so easily offended as Miranda’s seemed to be.

  
Feeling like a lowly assistant again, Andy fell in step with the small group. They presented themselves at reception, and made it through the security check without complaint, before being whisked away in an elevator. After being made to wait in the hall while Miranda took her meeting with an officer of the court (Jake, Miranda’s other main attorney, had hurriedly explained that Miranda was being informed of the penalties of nonattendance for court dates, and other formalities) Andy was almost relieved when Miranda emerged from the stuffy little room.

  
To the rest of the world, Miranda’s carefully practiced indifference was in full effect. Andy thought it might have some kind of force-field properties, so effective was it in causing people to avert their eyes or mumble some kind of apology. But she knew where to look, and in the very corners of Miranda’s eyes, a line or two belied her underlying tension. Perhaps others saw Miranda’s reflexive flexing of her right hand into a fist as a sign of aggression, or mental toughness, but Andy knew from months of observation that Miranda was as as close as she ever got to displaying anxiety. It was all Andy could do not to offer a quick hug, even though she knew the consequences of such a gesture would be far from pretty. She resisted, but only just.

  
Then the undignified part came–in a room marked ‘Processing’, Miranda was subjected to the whole mugshot and fingerprint routine. Andy had seen it done to others once or twice in a couple of the downtown police precincts, but for the first time she felt aggrieved at the brightness of the flashes (though Miranda took them in stride like just another red carpet appearance) and the manhandling of fingers that Andy now knew to be soft and delicate. The agent seemed to neither know nor care who Miranda was, and for all her egalitaritan principles honed on protest marches and debates in college, that nobody should be above the law, Andy was upset to see Miranda treated like a common criminal.

  
_Which she still might be_, Andy reminded herself. She had no more proof of Miranda’s innocence than she did of the existence of the gunman on the grassy knoll, as confident as she was in her speculations. _Please don’t let me be wrong_, she repeated to herself, over and over as Miranda pressed fingertip after fingertip to the plain white card. The agent had sheepishly confirmed that a system upgrade had knocked out their scanners, and when Miranda’s glare hadn’t killed him, she’d submitted to the small indignity of having ink rolled on her fingers.

  
As soon as they were done, the agent took off with the card and left them all standing. Jake and the other lawyer, whose name Andy didn’t care to get, excused themselves into the hall.

  
Once they were alone, Andy offered Miranda a weak smile.

  
“I guess you’re just lucky Meisel and his midlife crisis weren’t behind the camera, huh?”

  
To her credit, Miranda attempted a smile of acknowledgment, but her lips barely moved. Andy noticed then that Miranda still had ink on her fingertips, and she was holding her hands awkwardly away from what Andy guessed was a cashmere coat, possibly Alexander McQueen. Andy wouldn’t be surprised if the sudden unavailability of scanners turned out to be another tactic to bring Miranda down a peg or two. Though she had fantasized about seeing exactly that during her _Runway_ tenure, Andy realized she wasn’t the kind of person who could feel anything other than unease at actually seeing it happen.

  
Springing into action, Andy leaned across the desk that the agent had just deserted. A brief rummage produced a pack of cleansing wipes that were apparently designed for ink removal. Without thinking, Andy pulled a wipe from the pack and reached for Miranda’s left hand. It wasn’t until she was gently swabbing Miranda’s fingertips that she realized quite what she had done.

  
But Miranda allowed it, and Andy thought she might have detected a slight relaxation in Miranda’s shoulders as she worked to clean away the ink. Pausing only to retrieve another wipe, Andy was as gentle and efficient as she knew how to be, not stopping until Miranda’s fingers were spotless once more. So when Miranda squeezed Andy’s hand in acknowledgment, sheer dumb instinct took over.

  
She lifted Miranda’s hand to her mouth and kissed it.

  
It was like something out of _Camelot_, Andy couldn’t quite believe she’d done it, but her panic was halted in its tracks by the contented little sigh that escaped Miranda’s mouth. Maybe this kind of silent comfort Miranda could tolerate, maybe Andy had hit on a way to relieve some of the unimaginable stress.

  
Their eyes met, Andy forcing herself not to look away, even as a furious blush crept across her face and neck. When no reprimand or cruel mockery was forthcoming, Andy began gathering the rest of her courage. In this most ludicrous of locations, every fiber of her being was silently screaming for her to take a damn chance and kiss Miranda. If the raised eyebrow and briefest flicker of Miranda’s tongue across her bottom lip were any indication, Andy might not even get slapped or arrested for her trouble. Leaning in, Andy forced herself to keep her eyes open until the last possible second, not wanting to miss…

  
The door banged open.

  
The agent had returned, and although his head was buried in the paperwork he carried, Andy and Miranda sprang apart like repelling magnets. Miranda looked temporarily stricken, as though swarms of paparazzi had just caught her doing something untoward. Quickly enough, the mask slid back into place, and even as Andy tried to calm her own suddenly ragged breathing, she was mourning what felt like a missed opportunity.

  
It seemed Miranda was once again free to go. Andy was too numb to do anything but follow, her head reeling with a hundred different daydreams of what might have happened if Mr. Federal Employee hadn’t hurried back. She was having distinctly unpatriotic feelings toward her Justice Department in that moment.

  
Jake and Second Lawyer were patiently explaining something to Miranda, whose perfect posture and expressionless face gave no indication as to whether she was actually listening. As they traveled down in the elevator together, all Andy could smell was the slightly spicy aroma of Miranda’s perfume, and every noise other than Miranda’s quiet ‘hmms’ was tuned out like the grown-ups on Charlie Brown. This Inappropriate Crush was quickly turning into an Inconvenient one.

  
By the time they were signed out of the building, Andy had recouped most of her fragile sanity. Miranda dismissed her legal team with a wave, and the two men looked almost grateful as they took off. Andy wondered if Stephanie would be back for the actual trial, or if Miranda had somehow had the lawyer transferred to the firm’s mailroom.

  
Then Stephanie ceased to matter entirely, because Miranda had turned her full attention on Andy, the sparkle in her eyes evident even behind the smoky protection of her Tom Ford sunglasses. Before Andy could stutter out some kind of question, or apology, Miranda reached out swiftly and placed both hands on Andy’s biceps. Squeezing gently, Miranda leaned in for one of her signature double air-kisses, though Andy knew she wasn’t hallucinating that Miranda came close enough for their cheeks to touch, something that was never done.

  
A glare in her peripheral vision almost distracted Andy, but she forced herself to stay focused. Who knew when Miranda would be this close to her again? She owed it to herself and her frankly very imaginative dream life to soak up every available detail.

  
“Thank you, Andréa. I hope you know that your being here today… well, it meant something. I don’t forget loyalty—I hope you know that.”

  
Struck dumb, Andy could only nod. With that, Miranda turned on her immaculate four-inch heel and stormed off toward her waiting car.

  
Well, at least she was right about never being bored around Miranda Priestly, Andy figured. Shaking her head in something like disbelief, she took herself off toward the nearest subway station. Time to get to work.  



	7. 5C

Andy knew something was off as soon as she stepped into the newsroom. She’d stopped on her way back from Federal Plaza to grab Starbucks, eating a muffin and sipping at her coffee in the coffee shop itself for once, scribbling down questions that she’d be asking Stephen the next day. Her huge office, which never stopped bustling and making noise, fell almost quiet as she walked in. Considering that Andy didn’t even know half the people in it, that was a really bad sign.

Sure enough, John appeared at his office door before she could cross the vast space toward her desk. There was no friendly smile on his face as he waved her to him, and the impending dread that Andy felt simmering in the pit of her stomach was something she hadn’t experienced since working for Miranda. Feeling elated at Miranda’s touch seemed like a lifetime ago as Andy forced her suddenly leaden feet to make the short journey.

  
John waited to close the door behind her and indicated she should take a seat. Self-consciously, Andy swept her hand quickly over her mouth, worried about crumbs of all things for reasons that passed her understanding. When the editor finally took a seat, Andy realized she was holding her breath.

  
“So when were you going to tell me that you’re still working for Miranda Priestly?”

  
She’d never seen this stern side of John before, assuming all the rumors about his steely side to be nothing more than office gossip from oversensitive journalists. But the coldness of his stare was making her squirm, in the very, very bad way. Andy was practically wishing that the floor would open and swallow her up, but she knew she had to tough this out or she’d be fired for sure.

  
“I’m not working for Miranda. This is the only job I have.”

  
John looked unmoved by her denial. He turned toward his computer screen, turning the monitor to face Andy. Her breath caught as she saw the wirephoto of Miranda delivering what appeared to be a kiss to Andy’s cheek. She didn’t think semantics over angles and air kisses would do any good now though.

  
“I told you that she was my source. I worked for her, and she was willing to grant an exclusive, kind of.”  
It was hard to keep the defensiveness out of her voice, but Andy was too preoccupied with staring at the photo of her and Miranda. She was startled at how good they looked together, casual smiles on both their faces. This was really not the time to be crushing on her former boss, but this looked different from all the tabloid and gossip site snaps from _Runway_ days where Andy had only ever been background material.

  
John rubbed at his forehead, clearly still troubled by Miranda’s involvement.

  
“You’re a bright kid, Andy. And you’ve got a way with words that half my staff would kill for.”

  
Andy nodded in acknowledgment, suffused with the praise despite the very obvious ‘but’ that was heading her way.

  
“But I can’t have my reporters being lapdogs to the rich and famous. If Miranda Priestly wants to buy some good publicity, she’s got plenty of other places to go. I mean, Andy, do you get the risks you’ve exposed yourself to here? You could be accused of trying to contaminate the jury pool, never mind what it does to your credibility.”

  
Summoning every ounce of strength she had left, Andy rose to her feet.

  
“Are you firing me?”

  
John looked down at the blotter on his desk, and Andy’s heart seemed to stop temporarily. He was really going to fire her over this? For getting an exclusive and pushing circulation through the roof?

  
“No. Not yet.”

  
Exhaling in relief, Andy felt her righteous indignation begin to rise instead.

  
“I’m nobody’s lapdog, John. That photo means nothing.” Other than the fact that Andy was giving serious consideration to having it blown up to poster size and hung in her bedroom, anyway. “Besides, if you’d asked before accusing me, you’d know that tomorrow I’m interviewing Miranda’s ex-husband. I doubt there’ll be anything flattering to write about her from that. I’m telling this story as fairly as I know how.”

  
Her boss nodded, a thoughtful expression on his face.

  
“That Tomlinson guy, right? He hasn’t said much to the press before now.”

  
There it was, the gleam of chasing another exclusive in the editor’s eye. Andy knew she wasn’t quite forgiven, and that it would take an age for the whispers to die down, but letting Stephen vent his spleen through the _Mirror’s_ ink might just save her ass and her career.

  
“I’ll get something juicy from him, John, I can just tell.”

  
“See that you do. It’ll make it a lot easier to defend the charges that this paper is taking sides.”

  
Andy heard the note of dismissal in his voice, and she fled his office like the hounds of hell were after her. Not stopping until she reached the ladies’ room, Andy locked herself in a stall and forced herself to breathe normally. No doubt she’d given the rumor mill every reason to suspect that she actually had been fired, bolting from the room like that.

  
But Andy had much bigger problems than what her colleagues said behind her back. She had, she realized, just agreed to sell Miranda up the river in order to keep her job. Although Andy knew that she was entitled to do exactly that, it felt like a protesting too much about being an objective journalist. She was going to write a hatchet piece on someone who had given her career a huge boost to guarantee her reputation and a steady paycheck.

  
With her hands shaking slightly, Andy slipped out of the stall and looked at herself in the mirror for a long moment. She wanted to splash water on her face, but the makeup she had so carefully applied before meeting Miranda wouldn’t respond well to it. Instead, Andy was compelled to stare herself down, seeing no answers in her own dark eyes. She looked drawn under the harsh fluorescent lighting, but despite her revulsion at the idea, Andy already knew she wasn’t going to back away from the story. Let the other papers and the blogs get their shots in at her impartiality, let them call her a bimbo for having worked at a fashion magazine. If Andy was going to throw away this _whatever the hell it was_ with Miranda, she was going to write the best damn article of her career to do it with.

  
After all, wouldn’t Miranda have done exactly the same?

  
Unfortunately for Andy, time seemed to speed up after that, and Tuesday evening rolled around far sooner than she would have liked. Rushing home after a fairly quiet day at work where she’d filed a couple of local interest pieces, she stared blankly at her assembled clothes as the clock continued to tick down.

  
She wasn’t an idiot; she knew that Stephen would be far more likely to open up to her if she was dressed attractively. Andy didn’t like that side of the job, but getting ahead by any means necessary had been drummed into her often enough. Working in the cutthroat environment of a sometimes-struggling newspaper had opened her eyes to these realities once and for all. She wasn’t planning to flirt, exactly, but assuring she had Stephen’s full attention could only work in her favor.

  
Forced to hurry, she selected a simple black Robert Cavalli dress, one of the two ‘emergency’ little black dresses Nigel had foisted on her over time. Throwing a blazer over it for warmth and a little less attention on her neckline, Andy touched up her makeup and headed out toward Midtown.

  
Early as ever, Andy scanned the tastefully decorated bar but saw no sign of Stephen. Perching on a comfortable bar stool, she turned enough to be watching the main entrance. The bartender seemed content to take his time with a grumpy older patron at the far end of the bar, and Andy was fine with that. Given the current climate at the _Mirror_, she didn’t like her chances of being allowed to expense such overpriced drinks, when the Accounting Department balked at anything over a couple of dollars.

  
She was saved from thinking about it too long by Stephen’s arrival. His shirt looked a little rumpled, but the clothes were still obviously expensive. His hair looked recently cut, shorter than Andy remembered anyway, and she forced herself to give a bright smile when his eyes alighted on her. Judging by the leer she earned in response, he was a fan of Andy’s own ensemble. This was going to be exactly as bad as she had expected.

  
Stephen ushered them to a corner booth, evidently waiting for her to be impressed by the fact that it had been kept for him. Andy feigned a murmur of excitement, and he seemed to fall for it. Impressive was how an entire ballroom parted like the Red Sea for Miranda, getting a table in a hotel bar didn’t seem like such a big deal in comparison.

  
He ordered for her (“let me guess, you like those fruity drinks?”) and Andy didn’t have the heart to correct him. She sipped politely at the Cosmopolitan once it arrived, and then arranged her recorder and notebook carefully on the table. She felt nervous for some undefined reason.

  
Andy knew that this was the first step in screwing Miranda over completely, and although she would still have opportunities to stop, she had effectively committed herself to being a mouthpiece for Stephen Tomlinson’s bitterness. Suppressing a sigh, Andy began her interview.

  
By the time Stephen had finished ranting and raving about Miranda’s inadequacies as both a wife and a human being, he was on his fifth drink and beginning to talk in circles. Andy had given up scribbling down his diatribe, letting the recorder do the work for her. When he finally shut up, she seized her opportunity to escape.

  
“Well, that was just so helpful. I hope you don’t mind if I dash straight home to type up my article? My editor will be thrilled.”

  
Stephen blinked at her, not seeming to understand at first. Then he put his hand on her knee under the table. Andy, even on only one drink, was fighting a sudden urge to vomit.

  
“Why don’t you stay awhile longer? I have a suite here.”

  
He waggled his eyebrows in a manner that he obviously found seductive. Andy found it about as appealing as warm garbage. Gently removing his hand from where it rested on her stocking, having started creeping up her thigh, she slid out of the booth in one fluid movement, silently praying that he wouldn’t start a scene. The pity she had felt for him at first, in his first reluctant admissions about the way Miranda had belittled him and reduced their marriage to an afterthought had long since evaporated.

  
Hell, Andy was ready to divorce him after two hours, never mind the almost four years of this that Miranda had endured. She still couldn’t understand what Miranda had seen in the guy in the first place. Although trying to work out why Miranda did anything was a recipe for a headache, Andy reminded herself.

  
Saying goodbye, she made her way toward the exit. Only when she got there did she realize she’d left her jacket. Going back for it now would look as if she’d been playing hard to get, and fobbing off the sleazy financier for another hour was not her idea of fun. Seizing on a backup plan, Andy made her way back to the bar, at the end furthest from Stephen. She’d just have to hope he kept his back to her.

  
The bartender responded to her friendly smile and listened patiently while she essentially begged him to go retrieve her jacket. The bar wasn’t full, since most of the post-theater, post-gallery crowd had yet to descend and so he agreed quickly enough. As he made his way over, Andy heard the click of heels behind her. She only looked round to make sure Stephen hadn’t noticed her lingering presence, and nearly fell over at the sight of Emily trotting towards Stephen’s table in a shiny black pair of Louboutins and a skimpy silver dress that looked like a fabric NASA had rejected. Of course, it was probably the absolute height of fashion, but Andy didn’t keep track as she’d once been forced to.

  
Puzzled, Andy tried to remember a time in her old job when she’d been sent to track down Stephen. It was even weirder now that Miranda wanted nothing to do with him. As Emily reached the table, pausing to let the bartender and Andy’s forgotten jacket pass, it dawned on Andy like the nastiest of winter mornings.

  
Sure enough, Stephen stood to kiss Emily, and he only wobbled slightly. A kiss on the cheek meant nothing, Andy rationalized, nothing at all. Maybe they’d become friends of a sort, bonding over their seemingly unrequited love for Miranda.

  
But ass-grabbing was not friendly, not in any context outside of a locker room. The tiny squeal and giggle that Emily gave carried across the room, and Andy felt herself cringe reflexively. It sounded so fake, but then Andy realized she had never seen Emily happy, so had very little to compare it to. When Emily slipped into the same side of the booth as Stephen, Andy realized the age of plausible deniability was well and truly over.

  
She took her coat with effusive thanks and ran for the door, trying not to observe the surreal spectacle of Emily making out with Miranda’s almost-ex-husband. Andy was becoming more convinced by the second that she was going to require some industrial strength brain bleach before the night was out. Maybe she’d be able to invoice _Runway_ for the therapy she was clearly going to need.

  
Knowing she’d be up late working on her article, Andy decided on a quick call to her slightly immoral compass while walking to the subway. Lily picked up after three rings, just leaving work for the night herself. Andy winced in sympathy at the long hours, but was pleased when Lily agreed to lunch the next day. Andy knew she had to sleep on it, make up her mind how she felt about what she knew before offering it up to the sacrificial altar of a friend’s advice, and she really would have to start typing the minute she got in the door.

  
Fortunately, Lily was too tired to talk much, and Andy got her notepad out as soon as she sat down on the train. It allowed her to ignore the guys staring at her legs, and by the time she got off at her own stop, she had four paragraphs and a decent head of steam.

  
Later, when Stephen’s ranting had been fashioned into the negative exposé that Andy had promised to write, she was left alone with a mug of warm milk and her own thoughts. Cuddled up with her pillows on the bed, Andy stared unseeingly at the Daily Show episode she was playing back on her TiVo. She scrolled aimlessly through the Pages document that comprised her article in its rough form, feeling a strong urge to delete every insult and slur against Miranda. Only when the show’s credits began to roll did Andy alight on the sentence that had been bugging her.

  
Somewhere in between the not-so-subtle digs about Miranda’s performance in the bedroom (which Andy tried really hard not to think about, more than she already had) and the ‘poor Stephen’ rhetoric about how Miranda had never appreciated his success (which made Andy want to call him Mr. Priestly, just to watch him foam at the mouth) he had said something to nag at the back of Andy’s mind.

  
Scrolling through her notes instead of the article, she read again where Stephen offered his admittedly expert opinion about Miranda’s financial behavior. Although she’d kept her finances completely separate, apparently she had sought his advice on the occasional stock purchase. Andy could already see through it as Miranda’s halfhearted attempts to boost her husband’s ego, but Stephen had apparently never gotten wise.

  
Then it hit her, just at the point where she’d given up scribbling and let the recorder take over: Stephen mentioned that Miranda had made a second trade that same day, selling stocks in a tech company whose price began to rocket a few hours later. He’d claimed it was a deliberate attempt to make Miranda’s earlier fraud seem innocent, but even with the entire editorial team at the _Mirror_ breathing down her neck, Andy wouldn’t give column inches to that kind of conjecture. The problem was that Miranda’s second sale had never been made public. Not a single document, legally disclosed or illegally leaked, had contained details of that transaction. Andy had seen it, thanks to the private statements that Miranda had handed over, but it seemed odd that Stephen should know so much about something that happened three months after his filing for divorce. Especially when he hadn’t exactly been privy to those details in the first place.

  
Andy’s suspicions kicked into overdrive as she put the pieces together, reluctantly. As an assistant to Miranda, she had been given every password and account number possible to make sure Miranda never had to deal with anything as trivial as paying her bills or checking her accounts.

  
Which meant, of course, that Emily had all of the same passwords and probably more besides. Emily, who had been sprawled across the man who shouldn’t have that information; information that Emily herself could have provided access to.

  
Feeling sick to her stomach, Andy slammed the laptop closed. She had made sure to miss the print deadline for the night, and had no intention of sneaking into the last early morning run either. That bought her a little time to investigate, but she already knew it wouldn’t be enough to stall the publishing of this article.

  
She fired off a quick text to Josh, telling him that she’d want to see Judy in the morning if he could set it up and put off breaking her heart for at least a few more hours. Certain that she’d spend the night tossing and turning, Andy was surprised to find her eyes growing heavy as soon as her head hit the pillow. At least by sleeping, she might get a few hours of peace. The churning thoughts about Miranda seemed to suggest otherwise, and her dreams were chaotic.

  
Judy was sitting on Josh’s desk when Andy arrived, though the man himself was nowhere to be seen. With makeup a little too dark for Andy’s taste, Judy was still a knockout in her jeans and tight shirt. Andy wondered for a moment if paying more attention to how women looked was a hangover from _Runway_ or a result of the Inappropriate Crush. Deciding that she needed to focus on that part of her life like she needed a hole in the head, Andy shook it off and offered the other woman her brightest smile. Well, brightest for eight a.m., at least.

  
“Josh said you needed some IT help?”

  
Andy couldn’t help but like Judy right off the bat, especially when she didn’t bat an eyelid at Andy suggesting something that might technically be a little bit unethical. Tapping a few notes into her own Blackberry, Judy said she’d need at least a day to track down the information Andy needed, especially since she’d need to do most of it at home so as not to cause trouble at the _Mirror_.

  
“I really appreciate this, Judy. Josh is a lucky guy.”

  
Judy screwed up her face a little at that, taking Andy by surprise.

  
“Just between you and me? I don’t see us working out. He’s a sweet guy, but a little, you know, needy? Anyway, I’ve got your number so I’ll let you know when I have everything.”

  
As Judy headed back to the dark corners of the IT department, Andy felt a fresh wave of nerves wash over her. She’d just asked Judy to hack into _Runway’s_ computer system and if Miranda ever found out…well, Andy would deal with that when she came to it. In a few hours she’d be filing a story that might save her ever having to deal with Miranda again, a prospect that would have any sensible person jumping for joy.

  
The day dragged on impossibly, even worse when Lily canceled their impromptu lunch, and when she could put it off no longer Andy filed just before the first deadline. With a couple of minor edits, Andy already knew she’d be getting a two-page spread for her exclusive. This one she wouldn’t be cutting, framing or sending to her parents, though. Instead, she nibbled at a tasteless sandwich while watching her story progress through the editing queue until the dreaded green tick appeared next to it, the point of no return.

  
When seven p.m. rolled around, Andy knew she had to get out of the newsroom or risk driving herself completely crazy. She couldn’t concentrate on anything else to write about anyway, and until Judy confirmed her suspicions the bigger story had ground to a halt. She knew it was an urge that she should ignore, but she desperately needed to see Miranda. Whether to explain, to get the inevitable dismissal over and done with, or just because she _needed to see Miranda_, Andy wasn’t sure.

  
Her first instinct on reaching for her Blackberry was to call Emily and check on Miranda’s schedule for the evening. Although even a casual observer would have noted that Miranda had reduced her social commitments drastically, whether through choice or lack of invitations, Andy didn’t want to speculate. But talking to Emily meant thinking about Stephen, and the nauseating image of Emily and Stephen, which made Andy keep on scrolling until she hit the ‘M’s.

  
Miranda picked up after two rings, a weary “yes?” her only greeting.

  
“It’s me, Andy.”

  
“Yes, I’m quite capable of reading my phone’s display. Did you want something?”

  
Swallowing nervously, Andy ran her fingers over the freshly printed copy of her act of treachery. Any other time thinking about what she ‘wanted’ from Miranda could have provided a fun little distraction, but tonight nothing could compete with the dread.

  
“I have something you need to see. Are you busy, or can I come over?”

  
Miranda sighed, and Andy braced herself for rejection, even as she was fervently hoping for it. Wouldn’t it be lovely to go back to an existence where she never expected to see Miranda Priestly again? A place where calm and logic had a fighting chance, where Andy’s sudden and inexplicable crush could be allowed to die with some dignity.

  
“Fine.”

  
The pause meant that Miranda had considered excuses, ranging from not being at home to being far too busy to be interrupted by some cub reporter. Andy thought of another twenty questions in those few seconds, every one a delaying tactic. Questioning whether she should bring anything, or whether the girls had returned from their self-imposed exile could result in Miranda changing her mind.

  
Although it would postpone the inevitable, Andy knew she had to suck it up. Her cowardly side was cheering on the thoughts of self-sabotage, but Andy ignored it in favor of telling Miranda that she’d be straight over. Throwing her things into a functional blue backpack that might well give Miranda palpitations, Andy waved goodbye to Josh who was kicking at the photocopier in frustration and trudged downstairs to hail a cab. She didn’t even care about expensing it; she just wanted to avoid provoking Miranda any further by dallying with the subway.

  
Miranda must have been waiting downstairs, because she answered the door just moments after Andy rapped firmly on the frosted glass. Sure enough, Miranda led Andy to the overstuffed gray armchairs in the small room just off the kitchen, the same place that the instruction to screw Emily out of Paris had been given. The familiar smell of brewing coffee filtered out from the kitchen itself, and Andy’s mouth watered at the rich scent.

  
Motioning for Andy to sit, Miranda disappeared into the bright, white warmth of the kitchen. Andy pulled her article from her backpack, and then stashed the offending bag down the side of the chair, the better to not offend Miranda with. Lost in her thoughts as she gazed at Miranda’s immaculate home, Andy was momentarily stunned at the sight of her former boss returning with a tray in her hands.

  
On it sat two steaming mugs of coffee, with a jug of cream and a bowl of sugar. Though she was tempted to crack some kind of joke about Miranda finally fetching her own coffee, Andy didn’t dare disturb the odd little moment of domesticity. She forgot, for a moment, why she’d come there in the first place and allowed herself to enjoy a further glimpse of Miranda in private. Although it was a shame to stay quiet, because honestly Miranda serving coffee had seemed about as likely as George Bush eloping to Vermont with Newt Gingrich.

  
Having added a splash of cream and ignoring the sugar out of self-consciousness, Andy sat back in the supremely comfortable chair, careful not to disturb the folder resting on top of her crossed legs.

  
“I could have brought Starbucks, if you’d asked.”

  
Miranda glared at Andy over her first sip of the scalding coffee.

  
“I’m not incapable, as you might have worked out by now. We can’t all be coffee-making scientists like you, but I do what I can.” A glint in Miranda’s eye suggested she might not entirely mind being ribbed by Andy. She also seemed to be conflating Andy’s ability to buy Starbucks and make the occasional pot of decent coffee with being some kind of connoisseur. “Besides, as you like to point out, you don’t work for me anymore.”

  
As punctuation, there followed a signature Priestly head tilt. Not unique to Miranda any longer, since Andy had experienced it at least once from each of her daughters, but it had transformed from a mocking affectation into something Andy found adorable. As soon as this story was finished, as soon as Andy could quell this ridiculous addiction to staring at Miranda in close proximity, she was checking herself in at the nearest psychiatric facility, because _adorable_ matched Miranda about as well as cheeseburgers went with supermodels.

  
“Well, I still would have done it,” Andy offered weakly. “Speaking of working for you, my boss is under the impression that I still am.”

  
Miranda quirked an eyebrow to indicate that Andy should continue, before shifting her position in the other armchair. Folding one leg under herself, Miranda was cradling the coffee cup in her hands like it was the only source of warmth in the world. She looked relaxed in flowing gray pants (that probably cost more than Andy’s monthly rent) and a tight cream sweater, and apart from the brief interlude in her robe in Paris, this was as casual as Andy had ever seen Miranda.

  
_Casual and hot_, her own brain mocked her. Not for the first time, Andy found herself wishing for some kind of internal mute button. She just hoped the sudden flush of heat in her face was due to the thermonuclear temperature of the coffee, and not some kind of obvious blush that Miranda would notice.

  
“There were photos, from Federal Plaza. John accused me of being in your pocket.”

  
Miranda leaned forward to place her mug back on the tray, which was balanced on the small wooden table between them. With her hands free, Miranda folded them in her lap; her eyes alight once more with what appeared to be curiosity.

  
“Do you think you are? I seem to inspire a sort of blind devotion at times, after all.”

  
Andy thought of Emily, even as she winced slightly at Miranda’s uncanny ability to ask the one question that Andy didn’t much feel like answering. It might be a phenomenal asset at _Runway_, but Andy didn’t like it being aimed at her.

  
“Of course not. Well, maybe at first I felt a little compromised because it seemed like I was trading your exclusives for bylines. But you haven’t restricted me from investigating, you’ve been pretty open about the whole thing.”

  
A nod was the only response, and so Andy plowed on.

  
“And I think my willingness to give you a chance, to write about facts instead of your reputation, was more objective than the hysterical gossip everyone else is printing about you. So what if I’m also getting ahead at the same time, you have to grab these chances, right?”

  
Miranda smirked. She probably knew all too well the importance of grabbing her chances, wasn’t that how she’d risen from some unknown designer’s assistant to become the most powerful woman in fashion, if not publishing?

  
Andy froze as she realized there was nowhere left to go but the confession. She fidgeted a little, her fingers plucking at the edge of the folder containing her article. Miranda looked thoughtful as she broke the suddenly  
awkward silence.

  
“I believe I sense a ‘but’ in our immediate future?”

  
Now there was definitely a flicker of amusement on Miranda’s face as she watched Andy squirm. If Andy’s obvious panic was causing any concern, it didn’t show for a second.

  
“Maybe.”

  
It was a pansy-ass answer, Andy knew, and Miranda stiffened in disapproval. Stumbling over her words slightly, she continued, “But uh, yeah, John gave me a chance to prove my objectivity.”

  
Breathing had suddenly become a task that Andy had to concentrate on, but even as she forced each breath in and out, she watched Miranda’s lightning-fast mind put the implications of that statement together. All traces of playfulness were wiped as she drew the unfortunate conclusion.

  
“Oh.”

  
It was as close as Andy had ever seen Miranda to speechless. Gathering the last wilting scraps of her courage, Andy offered the folder from her lap with a trembling hand.

  
“Do you want to read it? It runs in the morning. Maybe you could call…”

  
Miranda gave one of her hollow little laughs, like ice falling into a glass. It was the laugh that was usually followed by a public firing or at least some kind of verbal evisceration. Andy cursed her loyalty--no, stupidity--once more, for forcing her to come here. Anyone smart would have let the piece run and dodged Miranda’s wrath from afar. Why did Andy feel she owed Miranda this token act of honesty, anyway?

  
“You have, I assume, assassinated my character in print, and then you bring it here in the hopes that I can fix it?” Miranda’s voice was almost raised, certainly louder than the almost breathy tones Andy was used to. This was definitely scarier. “No, you’ll tell me the worst of it, and then send it to Leslie for her to minimize the damage.”

  
With a face that had regained the impassivity of marble, Miranda’s eyes were stormy behind the frames of her designer glasses. Where just moments ago she had looked as soft and approachable as Andy had ever known her to be, now every sharp edge was back in place. Tense, like a cobra ready to strike, all traces of the Miranda who made warm drinks and jokes at her own expense had vanished. Andy figured she should try to mount some kind of defense before she was thrown out into the street.

  
“I’ve already emailed it to Leslie. She has a strategy in place, I think.”

  
If she was impressed by this last burst of initiative, Miranda made no sign. She drummed her fingers rapidly on the arm of the chair, apparently lost in thought for a moment. Her eyes closed as she bit down on her lower lip. If Andy didn’t know better, she’d assume Miranda was genuinely upset. She was so bewildered at the thought that she almost missed Miranda’s next question.

  
“And this ‘objectivity’? Is it based solely on your own experience?”

  
Miranda didn’t just ask loaded questions, she made it sound like an entire arsenal was waiting for the response. Andy realized too late that she could have gone about it another way, shared some horrific anecdotes from her own experiences and the legends of _Runway_ terror that were whispered in the lunch line and the ladies’ bathroom. She had gone a step too far in her betrayal, but there was no point in denying it now.

  
“Stephen.”

  
For one terrifying moment, Andy though Miranda was going to throw up—her color drained and a hand moved reflexively towards her flat stomach. When nothing happened, Andy forced herself to keep talking.

  
“He was, uh, next on my list for the story anyway. He gave me what I needed to get my editor off my back, and I think I might have found—“

  
Miranda raised a finger to silence Andy, her eyes open and blazing with something that could have been hurt or just pure, deadly rage.

  
“I’m so glad someone found a use for my ex-husband. God knows I never could.” The words were couched in one of Miranda’s crueler smiles. “You certainly know how to take your revenge, Andréa, I’ll say that for you.”

  
When Andy attempted further protest, Miranda cut her off with a glare that could have halted Niagara Falls. Apparently, interruptions were not permitted.

  
“So tell me, what delights can I expect my daughters to be greeted with tomorrow? Lurid discussion of their mother’s sex life? More assertions that I’m barely human, and just a step away from ruling Hell all by myself? Perhaps they’ll find some aspersions on my abilities to raise them? That’s always a pleasure.”

  
Although Miranda had started her rant with the usual quiet venom, the hint of tears crept into the last few words. Andy had questioned Miranda’s humanity often enough, but seeing this all too painful reminder of it made her feel like a heel.

  
“Miranda, I’m so sorry. So, so sorry.”

  
Miranda turned the full force of her glare on Andy. The redness appearing around her eyes did nothing to diminish its impact, and Andy began to fear she’d prove the theory of human combustion right there in that chair.

  
“That would be so much more sincere, if you’d actually admit to what you’ve done.”

  
Of course, Miranda hated euphemisms and other such signs of weakness. Andy had tried to deflect the blow of her choices, but in dancing around the exact nature, she’d only angered Miranda further. With a sigh, Andy stared at the floor while she made her admission.

  
“I screwed you over to save my job!”

  
Andy didn’t recognize herself in that plaintive whine, but there was no point in trying to pretend to be anything other than emotional—Miranda had always been able to see through that.

  
“Not a pleasant feeling, is it?”

  
Miranda had her usual air of nonchalance, but the questioning lift of an eyebrow gave away her investment in Andy’s answer. This was proving her right, that speech in Paris that had driven Andy towards the fountain and her freedom coming back to hang over them both now.

  
“Is this how it felt when you did it to Nigel?”

  
There it was. The topic they’d been studiously avoiding ever since the unexpected reunion, and Andy was reminded of exactly why when the ghost of a snarl played out across Miranda’s otherwise impassive mouth.

  
“I wondered when that particular low blow would land. To your credit, Andréa, I would have expected it much earlier from just about anyone else.”

  
With that, Miranda stood and motioned for Andy to do the same. Wait a goddamned minute, Andy thought to herself, was she seriously trying to leave things there?

  
Tapping her foot with impatience, Miranda jerked her head toward the door. The Book had arrived before Andy, and it lay waiting beside Miranda’s chair. It was perfectly plausible that she was just too busy to spend any time letting Andy apologize, but Miranda’s cool dismissal just left Andy bubbling with anger.

  
“Miranda, we’re not done here.”

  
Uh oh. Pursing of the lips. Andy knew that if she were a dress she’d be consigned to the trash from that little action alone. Andy’s guilt and hand-wringing emotion was fading now, the familiar frustrations of dealing with Miranda having taken their place.

  
Because she wasn’t a goddamned dress, she was someone who’d been put in an impossible situation, and Miranda _Fucking_ Priestly had been the one to put her in that situation. So Miranda wasn’t going to score cheap points and throw Andy out into the night. She would accept the goddamned apology even if it got Andy slapped across her face.

  
“We’re done when I say we’re done. This is my house, or at least it was last time I checked.”

  
Not thinking, Andy stepped forward and straight into Miranda’s personal space. She couldn’t help the thrill that coursed down her spine when Miranda made no move to step away. They stared each other down, neither conceding an inch.

  
“You have to let me apologize. Don’t you get it? I had to do it, so I could keep writing these stories; so I could keep helping you.”

  
Miranda snorted lightly, probably at the very idea of her needing anyone’s help.

  
“Why on earth would you try to help me?”

  
It was painfully, abundantly clear from the surprise on Miranda’s face that she’d assumed Andy’s involvement in this whole story exchange had been purely selfish.

  
“That’s what some people do when they, oh God—“ Miranda was still looking at Andy with the same stunned expression. “when they care about someone.” Her voice was barely a whisper as she finished; even Miranda seemed to struggle to hear it.

  
“You’re trying to tell me that you _care_ for me?” Miranda managed to make the word sound like a felony and an unfortunate disease all at the same time. “Trashing me in the media is a funny way of showing it.”

  
The predatory gleam was back in Miranda’s eyes now: she’d found a weakness to latch onto, like a shark sensing blood in the water.

  
“Is that why your boyfriend didn’t last, Andréa? How did you show your feelings for him? Pan his restaurant in a review?”

  
Andy wasn’t sure which was more frightening--that Miranda was discussing her love life, or that Miranda knew anything about Andy’s boyfriends, current or otherwise. Try though she might, she just couldn’t call Nate to mind, not when presented with the magnificent sight of an irate Miranda just inches away.

  
“That’s none of your business. And after listening to your crybaby ex for hours, I’m sure I could go to town on your romantic life, if I wanted to sink that low.”

  
Miranda shrugged in that infuriating way of hers. The shrug that said how silly anyone was to possibly think they could get to her with mere insults.

  
“Unlike you, Miranda, I’m perfectly capable of showing people how I feel.”

  
And then something just…snapped.

  
Maybe it was the way Miranda parted her lips for another sarcastic retort, or the sudden rush of blood to Andy’s head, or maybe the planets had just aligned in the right way to leave her absolutely batshit insane, but in that moment, Andy saw no other option but to kiss Miranda.

  
She struck quickly, a swift meeting of the lips, ostensibly to just shut Miranda up before she could say anything else hurtful, but Andy knew from the first millisecond of contact that one little kiss wasn’t going to be enough.

  
“What the—“ Miranda began when Andy pulled back, and clearly, shutting her up hadn’t been effective enough. Determined to stick with her plan, whether Miranda slapped her or had her arrested, or just tossed her out like a sack of garbage, Andy didn’t care about any damn thing that wasn’t kissing Miranda Priestly.

  
For all the fear, outright panic and confusion she felt as their lips met again, harder this time and with almost enough pressure to bruise, Andy knew it had been worth it.

  
Because Miranda was kissing her back.  



	8. 6A

Miranda was kissing Andy as if she’d never have another chance, her hands tangling in Andy’s hair and drawing her closer. Maybe there wouldn’t be another chance, but how was Andy supposed to worry about that when Miranda’s lips felt like this against her own? As both women realized that nobody was pulling away, the kiss became less frantic, but it didn’t do anything to stop Andy feeling weak in the knees. When Miranda’s lips parted that little bit further, allowing Andy to deepen the kiss, she was almost dizzy at the realization of how warm Miranda’s mouth was. The kind of heat that made her feel inexplicably, instantly happy: like hot chocolate on a cold day; enough to restore but never scald.

 

It was hard to believe that a gentle, tender mouth like this could produce almost constant cruelty and criticism, but even as her nerve endings tingled and her head began to reel, Andy held onto that fact. She exercised just a little caution, because to lose herself with Miranda may not be something that a person could come back from.

 

Eventually, even though the novelty and excitement was about as intoxicating as anything Andy had yet experienced, the kiss had to end. They’d navigated the fleeting moments of awkwardness—brief clashes of noses, both tilting their heads in the same direction in the same moment—and developed a kiss that seemed to go on forever. As they parted to draw breath, Andy forced herself to look Miranda in the eye. For her part, Miranda looked a little stunned, the fingers of her left hand drawn toward her mouth, almost as if she needed confirmation of what had just happened. Expecting to be thrown out at any minute, Andy straightened her spine and squared her shoulders.

 

And Miranda did open her mouth to speak. She opened it, then let it close again as the thoughts competing to become words slammed to a halt somewhere behind her eyes. Andy held her gaze, defying Miranda to lie her ass off and claim that the kiss had been nothing, nothing at all. It was clear that that was exactly what Miranda intended to do.

 

So Miranda herself looked pretty damn surprised when she reached for Andy once more, tugging on her shoulders before standing on tip-toe to resume what was fast becoming a habit. Miranda muttered something that sounded a lot like “I don’t…” against Andy’s lips, but whatever she had wanted to say was drowned out by the meeting of their mouths.

 

If Andy had learned anything in the last two years, it was the value of taking an opportunity when it presented itself. Hell, hadn’t Miranda practically been teaching a postgraduate course in exactly that?

 

And yet.

 

Something didn’t sit right with Andy, even as Miranda’s tongue made tentative contact with her own. Though she’d been fantasizing about doing exactly this for way too long, Andy knew that it probably wouldn’t be happening if Miranda’s world weren’t halfway to upside down. The stress, the constant attacks in the media, and the loneliness of both the divorce and being separated from her children had to leave even the Ice Queen feeling vulnerable. While Andy knew the importance of seizing her chances, she didn’t want it if this were only Miranda’s desperation showing.

 

Reluctantly, and with a few more swift kisses, Andy pulled away. She had to ask Miranda if she wanted this, at the very least.

 

When the shriek of her Blackberry’s ringtone punctured the easy silence, Andy felt a strong compulsion to hurl it out of the nearest window. Instead, she stepped back and fumbled around for her discarded bag, acutely aware of the flush on her cheeks. She didn’t dare turn around, not sure if she wanted to find Miranda’s eyes roving over her or not. Grabbing the phone from her pocket, Andy answered before voicemail could snatch the call   
away.

 

“Hey, it’s Judy. I got the information you wanted.”

 

Damn, that had been quick. All of a sudden, Andy’s post-kissing glow was suffused with practical concerns; talk about harshing her buzz. Kind of hard to feel calm and composed when in that moment she could barely remember her own surname.

 

“Just a minute Judy, I need to grab something to take notes on.”

 

“Sure.”

 

Miranda cleared her throat as Andy fumbled one-handed in the mess of her bag. Was it really possible that in her addle-minded guilt she’d left without a notepad? Turning around, with no small amount of trepidation, Andy found Miranda gesturing toward the end table. On it sat a pad of Post-its and a cheap-looking pen decorated with what looked like Disney princesses. Managing to look haughty even with mussed hair and lips that shone from kissing, Miranda met Andy’s questioning look with one that quite defiantly said ‘you try taking notes at 3am with a Mont Blanc fountain pen’. She must have borrowed it from her girls, Andy thought as she retrieved the stationery, which was just another overwhelming thought in the catalog of things she was simply not dealing with right now. The woman she’d just made out with was a mother of two, which was nowhere near the weirdest thing about the whole situation.

 

The pen was hardly necessary, in the end, because Judy unleashed a babble of technical jargon that even Andy, who liked her gadgets as much as the next 21st century girl, couldn’t keep up with. Just as she was about to beg for both mercy and a translation, Judy came to her point.

 

“The trading account was accessed from two separate locations on the day you asked about. The second transaction was definitely from Runway, and it all checks out with the details you gave me.”

 

Andy had been holding her breath, and she released it slowly.

 

“And the first one?”

 

The hesitation on Judy’s end couldn’t have been more than a few seconds, but Andy couldn’t bear it.

 

“You realize Andy, that this information is useless to you like this? I mean, no court will take illegally obtained—“

 

“I know. This is for me. I just… need to know.”

 

Turning around again, seeing Miranda’s face in that moment was not an option. Andy’s weak legs were threatening to give out on her, and she sank down onto the chair. Keeping her head bowed was the only way she could get through this conversation, and Andy thought she might cry at the complete mess that her life had become in the past few weeks. Instead, she offered a rapid-fire silent prayer to any deity that might or might not exist, hoping beyond all reason that she’d be proven right about Miranda’s innocence.

 

“In that case, you might be interested to know that the IP address where the account was accessed was not anywhere in the Elias-Clarke building. Nor was it from Miranda’s home address.”

 

Andy almost choked at that additional bit of information. Oh God, it was bad enough that she’d given Judy access to Miranda’s accounts and asked her to hack into Runway, but Judy and her goddamned initiative had thought to put the pieces together and breach Miranda’s home, albeit electronically.

 

“Yeah, I can hear your quiet freak out, Andy. Don’t worry, she’ll never know.”

 

Unless she can hear the other side of this cell phone conversation, Andy thought to herself. The urge to run and lock herself in the bathroom rose up in her chest, but that meant risking a look at Miranda, and staying put seemed safest for now.

 

“Thanks Judy, seriously. I owe you big time.”

 

“Oh, if it means anything to you—the IP address for the first transaction is registered to a Starwood hotel in Midtown. I don’t know if that helps, or makes it worse?”

 

Andy stumbled through further thanks and goodbyes, promising to go for a drink with Judy sometime very soon. She might even have made a new friend, but all Andy could focus on was the fact that she had to tell Miranda what she now knew.

 

Miranda, who made the most incredibly sexy little noises in the back of her throat when Andy had kissed her, who could look lost if anyone looked closely enough, and whose life had been turned upside down by some prick she had married. Andy, who had been captivated by gentle kisses, had to be the one to tell her. It wasn’t even close to being fair.

 

There was no way to delay further, so Andy looked up and found Miranda sitting opposite her, as if nothing had ever happened.

 

“That was a friend from work. She did some checking, and if we get your lawyers to lean on the Feds, I think we can prove that you didn’t make that trade.”

 

Though she had been feigning boredom and inspecting her manicure when Andy turned around, it was obvious that Miranda had been listening intently to the exchange. She looked up when Andy spoke, the faint flush across Miranda’s chest the only indication that she had felt anything other than indifference lately. As she absorbed Andy’s words, the tiniest of reactions played out in her eyes—tiny fireworks of curiosity, contemplation and then defensiveness.

 

“I know I didn’t make it. Is this supposed to be news?”

 

Andy bit her tongue as the cavalcade of arguments came bubbling up—the fact that Miranda had never bothered to confirm or deny the charges other than a not guilty plea, that she’d been running rings around Andy for weeks and enjoying it—and carried on as calmly as she knew how.

 

“Obviously, my information is inadmissible. But a proper investigation should show that Stephen is the one who made the sale.”

 

She knew better than to expect an explosion of rage; though Miranda was apparently quite capable of showing certain feelings when it suited, her control filters were clearly back in place.

 

“Stephen has never had access to my personal accounts. Why would that change _after_ our separation?”

 

There was a flash of warning in Miranda’s eyes, but Andy couldn’t help herself now (much as she couldn’t earlier) and she had to see this conversation through to its end.

 

“He’s seeing Emily—dating her, I think. I assume she gave him access. It probably explains the phone message from Katherine that you say you never received, too.”

 

No mistaking the flinch at that revelation. Of the many people Miranda might expect to betray her, Emily in all her slavish devotion had clearly not been on the list.

 

“You’re right about Stephen, I admit. But not Emily, she wouldn’t dare.”

 

Wait, what the hell?

 

“You _knew_ Stephen did this?”

 

Miranda nodded, not quite meeting Andy’s eyes. Wow, it had to be bad for Miranda to show even the slightest trace of shame. The heady cocktail of lust and excitement Andy had just been drunk on gave way to a sobering jolt of pure anger.

 

“So, what? You were getting your kicks watching me run around? Poor little Andraaayuh, trying to clear Miranda’s name. I hope you’ve had a good laugh. God, I risked my job over this.”

 

Snapping back to attention, Miranda narrowed her eyes at the accusation.

 

“Oh, don’t be so melodramatic. Honestly, is it so unreasonable to ask that you do the work yourself?”

 

Folding her arms across her narrow waist, Miranda leaned back in the armchair, still watching Andy carefully. Dismissal, just as she’d dismissed Andy from her office a hundred times. Well not tonight, Andy vowed to herself.

 

“Why haven’t you told the investigators this? I mean, the time and money this is costing, when you could clear your own name in a few minutes? Are you actually _insane_?”

 

Miranda chuckled at Andy’s righteous indignation, as though nothing had been at stake all this time.

 

“That naïveté of yours is so fetching, Andréa.” Andy noted with a moment of satisfaction that Miranda didn’t elongate the vowels as much, perhaps a little stung by Andy’s earlier mockery. “But really, do you think it’s that simple?”

 

Andy couldn’t sit still any longer, and leapt to her feet. Pacing the small room, she felt the rage bubbling away. She’d been used, and worse than that she’d fallen for it far beyond even what Miranda had been aiming for. Or had Miranda seen the Inappropriate Crush for herself and played upon it? God, Andy felt like a grade-A moron. It was all she could do to refrain from bashing her head repeatedly against the dark-green wallpaper.

 

“I’m sure if you used it in your defense, the Feds would have to find out the same information that I did. They can’t ignore it.”

 

Almost pleading now, Andy desperately wanted Miranda to agree, to explain herself in ways she never had   
before.

 

“I can’t prove for sure that it was Stephen; though I’m quite sure he’s behind it. I need to be cleared of the charges for this to go away once and for all. I know how the media works, give me credit for that at least.”

 

Andy found Miranda’s nonchalance infuriating. Miranda had ruined entire careers on the basis of nothing more than office gossip, and now she was holding back? Something did not make sense, and if Andy wasn’t much mistaken, Miranda was squirming slightly in her seat, obviously concerned that Andy was going to piece it together.

 

“This isn’t about proof. With what you pay your attorneys, I’m sure they could manufacture some if you needed it.”

 

The sudden draining of color from Miranda’s face confirmed Andy’s shot in the dark. The editor was clutching at her own arms with a white-knuckled grip, enough to bruise if she wasn’t careful.

 

“Well, what else can it be? Loyalty to Stephen? No way, you’d rather destroy him than cover for him.”

 

Miranda was looking at Andy with something between fear and abject loathing, and it only served to spur Andy on. Not pacing now, Andy leaned on the back of her chair, staring Miranda down.

 

“Or maybe you did do it after all, and he’s going to cover for you at the last minute? Nah, he hates your guts. No way he takes the fall for you.”

 

Oh boy, pursed lips time. Well to hell with Miranda and her intimidation, Andy had right and a couple of mind-blowing kisses on her side. Damned if she was walking away now.

 

“Wait, I think I get it. You’re embarrassed! Somebody finally got one over on the great Miranda Priestly, and you’d rather risk _jail_ than lose face?”

 

Miranda seemed to turn to stone before Andy’s eyes, the stillness as good as a screaming admission. Her eyes remained averted, the faintest traces of a blush creeping along her cheekbones. Andy couldn’t quite believe it, even though she’d put it into words. Pride might come before a fall, but Miranda was willing to hit rock bottom rather than admit to being fallible?

 

“It’s not just about me.”

 

Having regained some composure, Miranda met Andy’s incredulous stare with a steady gaze.

 

“Think what it says if someone in my position, with all that I have, can be taken advantage of by a man?”

 

Oh, hell no. Miranda was not actually, seriously trying that gambit.

 

“You mean to say that this is some kind of feminist crusade? That Miranda Priestly, the lynchpin of an industry that trains women to _hate_ themselves, is setting herself up as the new Betty Friedan?”

 

Miranda frowned at the slight, clearly gearing up for battle.

 

“Actually, you’d be shocked at how much I have in common with Naomi Wolf.”

 

It took almost superhuman effort, but Andy didn’t rise to the bait. She had a point to make, and nothing from obvious lies, to how much she still wanted to strip those soft gray pants from Miranda’s legs, was going to deter her.

 

“There’s nothing to stop me taking this information to Stephanie, to Jake, hell, I could take it directly to the FBI.”

 

Which was apparently Miranda’s tipping point, Andy realized too late. With a swift grace that Andy had almost   
forgotten, Miranda was back on her feet in one fluid movement. Even with the bulk of the chair between them, Andy took a reflexive step backwards.

 

“You will do nothing of the kind, do you understand? If I hear a word of this anywhere, I will not be quite so forgiving as I was after Paris.”

 

The thinly veiled threat flashed in Miranda’s eyes: blacklisting, the ruination of Andy’s name in the publishing world, possibly even exile from New York itself. All the things Andy had convinced herself she wasn’t scared of, back when Miranda had seemed placid and vulnerable, and even that was hard to remember in the face of a Miranda who looked ready to lash out at any moment. Andy felt like the awkward new girl all over again, practically scared to breathe for fear of causing some catastrophe.

 

But forcing herself to breathe deeply, Andy stepped forward once more. This dance of forward then back had to end sometime, and if she wanted to be able to look at herself in the mirror, forward was the only acceptable course. She would survive Miranda’s wrath, as she had survived her disappointment, disapproval and even a few   
minutes of her unguarded lust.

 

“I’m going to choose to believe you didn’t just threaten me. I’m going to choose to believe that you simply had an overreaction to a very stressful time in your life.” Andy plowed on before Miranda could voice her obvious objection. “I’m going to choose to walk out of here before you make me hate you, again.”

 

Which had the miraculous effect of shutting Miranda up. Though the barbs and arguments had to be ready to trip off her tongue, Miranda finally chose silence over quiet viciousness. Not quite how Andy had hoped the evening would end, but perhaps the best outcome in a bad situation.

 

Andy grabbed her backpack, stuffing her few papers into it and throwing it over her shoulder. She stepped deliberately around Miranda, only for her former boss to follow one step behind all the way to the foyer. Miranda stopped Andy with a surprisingly gentle touch to her shoulder. She waited for Andy to turn around before speaking, her voice no more than a whisper.

 

“I won’t beg.”

 

That had to be the most obvious statement in the history of the English language, Andy figured.

 

“But I am asking you, as well as I know how, not to do anything with this information.”

 

No ‘please’, no further explanation beyond what Andy had already assumed. Just a simple request that still somehow managed to sound like an order. Andy felt very, very tired.

 

“Fine. It’s your funeral. Or prison term, whatever.”

 

Miranda reached out, hesitating for a second, then placing her hand lightly on Andy’s cheek. The palm was refreshingly cool against Andy’s flushed cheek, a sort of balm for her remaining anger.

 

“Thank you,” Miranda breathed, and it was so quiet that Andy was sure she’d been reading lips rather than actually hearing it.

 

Miranda leaned in, her lips pressing briefly against Andy’s other cheek. They both sighed in an unspoken harmony, and Andy felt the unmistakable prickle of tears in her eyes. But before she could speak, before she could even begin to think of the words to say, Miranda had withdrawn the affection and was heading toward the door.

 

Taking her cue, Andy stepped out into the late evening and didn’t look back, not even when she heard the door click closed. Her feet took over the thinking for a few minutes, propelling her along the sidewalk in the direction of the subway as Andy’s mind replayed the high-definition loop of everything that had just happened.

 

She didn’t detour on her way home, even though she felt like handing over every dollar in her purse for enough vodka to knock her out for the night. In her apartment, she went through the motions of getting ready for bed, only to spend most of the night wide awake and staring at the ceiling. Her laptop lay open on the unused pillow beside her, and only when her periodic refreshing brought up her interview with Stephen did she finally fall into a fitful sleep.

 

She didn’t read it; after all, she already knew every word.

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Running late, but lacking the motivation to rush, Andy was still in the elevator at the _Mirror_ offices when her phone began buzzing in her pocket. Juggling her coffee, bag and jacket, she picked up the call without glancing at the screen.

 

“Andy Sachs.”

 

“You will meet me at 48 Lounge at one o’clock.”

 

_Emily_. Who sounded shaken, no doubt about it. Had the interview with Stephen caused her trouble with Miranda too? Or was Emily just freaking out about what else Andy knew? Andy was fairly sure that Emily hadn’t seen her at the bar, but it wasn’t impossible that Stephen had been bragging about his Miranda bashing. Not that Andy got an opportunity to ask, given that Emily had hung up.

 

When she reached her desk, Josh threw a balled up piece of paper at her over their computer screens, but otherwise didn’t look up from his keyboard. Though she still hadn’t read the printed version of her article, Andy saw the headline blazing back at her from her home page when she logged on. Various print copies were strewn across desks, because old habits died hard even in the digital age. John was deep in conversation with the Sports Editor on the other side of the office, but when he caught Andy’s eye he gave her a nod and a brief smile. She’d done enough to save her ass after all.

 

She spent her morning replying to emails and filing another couple of small items for the next issue: a minor bond issue, some event in Queens that she forgot about as soon as she’d typed it up. Enough to pass the time until she could bolt from the office and find out what the hell Emily wanted. Andy didn’t even dwell on the fact that any other day she’d have been obsessing over Miranda, wishing the lunch invite had been from her instead. Today, Andy felt like keeping her distance, the argument from last night too fresh in her mind.

 

Arriving Miranda-standard early at 48 Lounge, Andy took a seat at a table in the corner. No lingering by the bar today, since this conversation wasn’t one that should be overheard.

 

Emily swept in, Dior sunglasses making her almost unrecognizable for a moment, but the flaming red hair clued Andy in pretty fast. She was dressed almost sedately by Emily standards, a black Burberry trench coat that skimmed the top of her knee-high boots, with a muted scarf (Andy didn’t need to see a label to guess Hermès) knotted at the base of her throat. Wait, was this Emily’s couture attempt at spy gear?

 

“Hello, Agent 99,” Andy muttered as Emily sat down. Emily pulled off her glasses to reveal a quizzical expression, her eyeshadow just a step away from fluorescent.

 

“Agent what?”

 

Andy sighed, Emily wasn’t the greatest with pop culture unless it had just been profiled in _Runway_, and then with the whole British thing on top of that…

 

“Your undercover spy wardrobe, is what I was referencing.”

 

Waving the waiter over, Andy ordered a martini and Emily opted for sparkling water.

 

“Oh, well, I suppose so,” Emily responded once the attractive young man had gone off to retrieve their drinks. “Though I was going for a sort of Emma Peel look, if you must know.”

 

Assuming that Emily’s lunch breaks hadn’t gotten any longer in the past few months, Andy was pleased when the drinks arrived promptly. She took a careful sip, watching her former colleague over the rim of the glass. Emily looked about as nervous as Andy had ever seen her, worse than the time when an ambassador’s name had slipped her mind at the Ball.

 

“So why did you summon me here, Em?”

 

Emily propped her chin in her hand, before rolling her eyes. With one of her patented ‘well, aren’t you an idiot’   
glares, she began to explain.

 

“Stephen told me about the interview, and of course I read it this morning. Miranda is fuming, I don’t mind telling you.” Emily didn’t look any more perturbed by that than usual, even she had to adjust to Miranda’s perpetual bad moods, right? “She got into the office at _six_ this morning without telling anyone, and she got someone else to drive her because Roy didn’t text me until he went to pick her up and she had already left.”

 

Miranda’s way of dealing with a sleepless night? A small, mean part of Andy certainly hoped so. She also noted, with some trepidation, that Emily wasn’t attempting to deny her involvement with Stephen.

 

“When I arrived the first thing she told me was that your calls are not to be put through to her anymore.” Andy tried not to flinch at the news, but the malicious gleam in Emily’s eye suggested that she’d caught it. “Then she told me to ‘find a suitable role’ that I want to be promoted into. Can you believe that?”

 

No, Andy could not believe that. The day after Andy had informed Miranda that Emily might have helped to cause all this trouble, Miranda was dishing out career candy? That did not sound believable at all.

 

“So she doesn’t mind that you’re screwing her husband, huh?”

 

Emily had the decency to look a little ashamed, at least.

 

“I hardly see how that’s relevant.”

 

“Well, it’s only relevant if you know that Stephen is the one who traded those shares from Miranda’s account.” Emily froze with her glass halfway to her mouth, staring at Andy in a way that could only be described as dumbstruck. “If you know that somehow, he got hold of Miranda’s passwords and used that information to completely fuck up her life.”

 

Emily dropped the glass. Andy pushed her chair back to avoid being soaked by the cascading water, though the slice of lemon fell to the floor with an almost comical splat. The waiter bustled into action, mopping up the spillage without a word, without needing to be called. A fresh glass of water was provided and the two women didn’t exchange another word until the mess had been cleared.

 

“You cannot be serious.”

 

From Agent 99 to John MacEnroe in ten minutes; it was kind of impressive. Andy took in Emily’s shaking hand (which thankfully left the new drink well alone) and the shocked expression that it would take Oscar-winning abilities to fake. Perhaps Miranda had, infuriatingly, been right once more.

 

“Serious as a heart attack, Em. He did this. Miranda won’t let me take it to the Feds, but he did it.”

 

Emily let her face fall into her hands with a groan.

 

“I thought… I thought he wasn’t so bad, you know? He just couldn’t survive Miranda, and so few people can. Oh God, have I been a complete idiot?”

 

Unable to help herself, Andy provided the metaphorical last straw.

 

“Well, if you include the fact that he hit on me during the interview, it kind of looks like idiot territory, yeah.”

 

Looking up long enough to screw up her face in exasperation, or possibly disgust, Emily let her head fall again. She’d probably be banging it on the table if it hadn’t just been covered in her drink.

 

“Does Miranda think I helped him? Because I swear, I didn’t. He just, well, he was _nice_ to me. Do you know the last time someone was actually nice to me? He didn’t treat me like a servant, but not like some kind of trophy either. God, I thought he cared.”

 

Emily’s breathing was becoming more shallow as she ranted, her voice approaching a hysterical pitch that was going to blow any remaining hopes of discretion out of the water.

 

“Miranda seemed pretty sure you weren’t in on it when I told her. Would she be promoting you if she thought you were?”

 

A squeak was Emily’s only response, and Andy was forced to deploy Emily’s own technique.

 

“You have _got_ to calm down.”

 

Which was just about enough to make Emily snap out of it. Some color returned to her face, and she took a deep, if shaky, breath. When she spoke again, her haughtiness sounded almost intact.

 

“Well, we can’t let him get away with it. No matter what Miranda says.”

 

Andy shrugged. Although she still wanted to run with it, preferably straight to the FBI, she was wary of Miranda’s threats.

 

“I don’t know, Em. She was pretty clear about not wanting that.”

 

Emily threw her hands up in exasperation.

 

“And how often does Miranda actually say what she _wants_? Didn’t you learn anything working for her?”

 

Aware that they were crossing a line by even considering disobeying Miranda, Andy forced herself to focus. Was it worth risking her career, or more importantly, the last remaining sliver of chance that she might get to kiss Miranda again? Would any of those things matter if Miranda went to prison for a crime she hadn’t committed?

 

What the hell happened to doing the right thing, anyway? This confusion over what she _should_ do, the blurring of ethical lines, wasn’t that why she’d run from Miranda a year ago? Andy realized, with no small amount of shame, that she’d been so intent on keeping her job, she’d forgotten to do her job.

 

“You’re right, Em. But it can’t come from me, I didn’t exactly get this information legally.”

 

Emily checked her watch, effectively dismissing Andy’s concerns.

 

“Email me everything you have, and I’ll take care of it.”

 

Andy thought of a hundred questions, not least whether she really could trust Emily. But for lack of a better option, she nodded in both defeat and agreement. Emily stood to leave, slipping her sunglasses back in place despite the gray skies outside.

 

“And Andrea? Do me a favor and don’t mention the Stephen thing to anyone else. It’s going to be quite mortifying enough.”

 

It was the least she could do, Andy figured, and she stayed in place while Emily disappeared into the Midtown lunch hour crowd. By the time she’d requested the check and paid, Emily would no doubt be back behind her desk, once more the guardian of Miranda’s lair. Suddenly glad of someone to share the burden, just like when there had been almost a thousand Christmas gifts to wrap for Miranda, or the twins were playing tricks again, Andy smiled as she stepped out onto the street.

 

One way or another, she was going to help Miranda, and to hell with Miranda if she didn’t appreciate it. With a new spring in her step, Andy began the walk back to her office.


	9. 6B

Paris Fashion Week came and went. An anniversary of sorts, though Andy seemed to be the only one who remembered that there had been a ‘last year’, Fashion had little time for the past.

 

Andy tried to pretend that she wasn’t devouring every inch and second and image of the coverage. The attention on Miranda only intensified at the center of her own kingdom, and it seemed that Andy could drown in the sheer volume of it all, if only she’d let herself.

 

She’d handed over all her information over to Emily, heard nothing from Miranda and let her own world continue to spin on its axis. What more could Andy have done? She had counted down the days and waited for everyone important at _Runway_ to depart for Europe, though the reality was that it made no impact on her daily life.

 

John had pushed a few more Society pieces her way, a test of her impartiality and her usefulness. Andy had let bitterness and the barbs that Miranda might have been proud of pour through the keys of her battered laptop, and felt only a little bit better. Thankfully, with Miranda out of the country, none of the gossip pieces were about her, not when she was taking up big chunks of the rest of the paper, anyway. Andy had gone out drinking with Doug and dancing with Lily, until two weeks later when Miranda was back in New York to a clusterfuck (surely the collective noun) of paparazzi at JFK.

 

But still no call, no email, no carrier pigeon or smoke signal. Emily sent a brief text confirming that she’d approached Stephanie, and that everything would be ‘just fine’. Andy didn’t bother to reply, content to go through the motions of working and sleeping and not much else. Her involvement with Miranda Priestly seemed to finally be over, but not a scrap of the expected relief was in evidence.

 

The universe, or more specifically her boss, had other ideas. Within hours of Andy resigning herself to a Miranda-free existence, John called her in to inform her that she’d be covering the court beat during the just-announced trial dates. Andy couldn’t comprehend it at first—the usually creaking wheels of justice were always slow to turn. It seemed that national coverage and an eager prosecutor could move mountains for a celebrity trial, while murderers and rapists went unpunished. Since Miranda’s attorneys had apparently requested a speedy trial to ‘clear her name as soon as possible’, the courts were happy to expedite matters. It disgusted Andy, but there was no mistaking the jolt of excitement at the thought of being in the same room as Miranda for days and possibly weeks on end.

 

The reality was quite different though.

 

Andy found herself on that first morning, after being searched for recording devices and passing through the metal detector, with sweaty palms and something like a nervous twitch in her left eyelid. If she could have slapped herself without drawing the attention of the rapidly filling room, she would have—anything to compel herself to get a damn grip.

 

Miranda had forsaken her usual fifteen minutes early rule, sweeping into the courtroom with barely two minutes to spare. She looked entirely unhurried, even as the phalanx of lawyers and assistants buzzed around her like terrified worker bees. She sat down gracefully at the table, seemingly unflappable as she flipped through papers pulled from her bag with a bored expression.

 

She looked damn good, too. Which was a bit like noticing that New York had a lot of people in it, or that breathing required oxygen, Andy knew. Trying to feign nonchalance, Andy drank in every detail of Miranda’s exquisitely tailored gray suit and the pale-blue shirt beneath it. The heels were as perilous as ever, though they were quickly obscured from Andy’s vision by all the activity around the defense table.

 

Before Andy could get caught gazing like a lovesick puppy, the judge showed mercy by arriving on time. Standing with the rest of the room, Andy almost snapped the pencil in her hand from the tension, but before long the boring lull of a court in session took over the room, and Andy was left to concentrate on her notes.

 

By the second week, Andy was contemplating ways to smuggle in an emergency iPod for the sake of distraction, and by the third she would have taken a bomb scare or a fire alarm just to liven things up. Securities fraud wasn’t exciting at the best of times, and all anyone wanted to talk about was whether Miranda’s outfits were a reflection of her guilt (no ostentatious furs, no bold colors) and half of the press pack were entertainment reporters who had to keep asking everyone around them procedural questions. Andy prided herself on having done her research.

 

The business of trying Miranda for these alleged crimes seemed to have little to do with Miranda herself so far, and a lot more to do with the odious little prick leading the prosecution. Checking herself for fairly obvious bias, Andy rationalized that she’d find the guy repulsive even if he were trying Bin Laden.

 

Chad Rollins didn’t seem much older than Andy herself, but she couldn’t fathom what a slick little poser like him would be doing on a government salary other than pursuing a political career. With that against him from the start, his smarmy demeanor and obvious attempts to curry favor with the bored, confused and disgruntled jurors left Andy with a distinct urge to slap him whenever his shiny, pink face turned in her general direction.

 

Miranda sat at the long table, legs crossed beneath it, and with her regal bearing and bored expression, it might just as easily have been another editorial meeting. The prosecutor couldn’t seem to stop looking at her, from pointed stares as he outlined her nefarious crimes, to nervous glances over his shoulder during quiet spells. Clearly, the guy had staked his career on grilling the Ice Queen herself, and Andy couldn’t help but wish him inglorious failure. In return, he’d received one or two contemptuous glares from Miranda, but the rest of the time she ignored everyone but the judge.

 

For her own part, Andy found the disconnect of being parted from her laptop and Blackberry oddly refreshing. Reduced to scribbling in shorthand, Andy found she paid more attention to the scene unfolding in front of her. She was ready to pounce on every hesitation, willing the defense attorneys to do the same. Jake and Stephanie seemed to be a formidable team, though even with all her legal reading each night Andy’s experience was mostly limited to watching the odd episode of _Boston Legal_, because little girls who wanted to be journalists grew up worshipping Murphy Brown, and whatever else Candice Bergen did, out of loyalty.

 

In week four, things finally started heating up. A string of _Runway_ employees took the stand to confirm or deny Miranda’s activities during the week of the sale. It seemed like overkill to confirm when she had returned from her Christmas vacation (_“Saint-Barth. Her villa.”_) or exactly how many glasses of sparkling water had been ordered over a long lunch (_“three, no, four, and she didn’t drink the last one”_), but the prosecutor focused on these details as if they contained the mysteries of the universe.

 

Nigel took his turn, a relatively somber suit spruced up with his usual outlandish accessories and a violently pink shirt that only he could pull off. Winking at Andy when he caught her eye from the stand, he suffered through his questioning with a series of eye-rolls and pitying sighs. It worked in riling Chad, who tried everything he could to attack Nigel, to the point where the judge had to interject and force the prosecutor back on topic. To his credit, Nigel didn’t look remotely troubled by the snide allusions to his sexuality and wild past. He stuck resolutely to the story he’d told from the start—Miranda had been with him that day reshooting a swimwear spread and not once had he heard her speak to anyone about anything other than paunchy models or bland tankinis.

 

Andy smiled as the jury drank in Nigel’s testimony. It was starting to look a lot better for Miranda now that actual people were speaking up for her and the attention wasn’t on a bunch of spreadsheets.

 

Still, Andy couldn’t help but wonder what it was costing Nigel personally. How did he feel about having Miranda’s back so publicly when she’d barely hesitated before stabbing him in his? Jacqueline Follet had been profiled in countless publications since Miranda’s indictment, citing her as the likely successor to the _Runway_ crown should Miranda be tossed in Federal prison. Irv had made no secret of his ‘contingency plan’ and it had been a feature of the Miranda gossip for weeks. Could Nigel watch that woman get promoted over him again, even closer to home this time?

 

Leaving for the midday recess, Andy got her chance to find out. Miranda disappeared with her lawyers and Nigel hadn’t been summoned to her side. He approached Andy on the courthouse steps and whisked her away to a quiet little bar.

 

Andy frowned as Nigel ordered two dirty martinis, but he laughed off her protests.

 

“Please, Six, irresponsible boozing is practically in your job description.”

 

Clichés about journalists really did die hard, but in the midst of a long week, Andy welcomed the chance of getting her buzz on. She ordered a salad to stop it descending into all-out drunkenness though, there were still countless hours of testimony to sit through.

 

“You looked very cool up there, Nigel. For a guy in a pink blouse.”

 

Nigel rolled his eyes at her feeble attempts to mock that which she did not understand, and Andy flinched reflexively in case he took aim at her pedestrian shirt and leather jacket attire. Thankfully, he seemed too preoccupied with the case to let fly about Andy’s countless crimes against fashion.

 

“I think it’s going well. Miranda should walk; unless there’s something she’s hiding.”

 

Biting her lip, Andy didn’t come forth with the information that Miranda knew exactly who was trying to screw her over and had opted to say nothing. Nigel probably wouldn’t believe it even if Andy did mention anything, so no point in betraying the reluctant confidence.

 

“Rollins certainly has it in for her. And at least a few jurors don’t seem to like her much.”

 

Nigel snapped a breadstick in two as he pondered.

 

“Well, once Miranda takes the stand, I’m sure her warm and sunny disposition will win them over.”

 

They both laughed, with a little guilt on Andy’s part. Small talk about the lawyers and the other witnesses passed the time until Andy’s food arrived, but Nigel only ordered another martini without stealing so much as an olive from her plate.

 

“This is big for you, covering the case, right? I’m no journalist, but I thought it took years to get an assignment like this.”

 

It wasn’t quite accusation in Nigel’s tone, but his unerring ability to pick out the details that didn’t seem quite right had kept him at Miranda’s right-hand side for all these years, and the gift didn’t stop at accessories.

 

“Yeah, it’s a big break. My boss wants that ‘inside scoop’ that everyone’s so obsessed with. Guess I’ll always be the girl who worked at _Runway_, so I might as well get something out of it.”

 

She did her best to seem weary about it, but Andy knew she wasn’t the world’s greatest actress. Nigel took a generous sip from his martini glass, apparently hesitating over his next words. Which was pretty scary when Andy considered all the things Nigel _would_ say to her without bothering to soften the blow.

 

“I’ve seen you in there.” He swirled the olive in his glass, not quite meeting Andy’s eyes as he spoke. “Maybe nobody else has noticed, but you only have eyes for one thing in that room. Or for one person, should I say?”

 

Although he was trying to keep his tone light, Nigel’s concern was showing on his face. He seemed to be waiting for Andy to deny what he saw as a ridiculous suggestion, ready to laugh at the absurdity of even thinking she might be interested in Miranda.

 

Andy couldn’t seem to indulge his unspoken request. Instead of fumbling for an unconvincing denial, she found herself staring at the crisp white tablecloth, her cheeks turning unmistakably red.

 

“Oh, Six. I hoped I was wrong.”

 

Stammering, Andy tried to lessen the impact of Nigel’s little revelation.

 

“It’s no big deal. I just—well—it’s Miranda, you know? She has a way of sucking up all the attention in a room.”

 

Nigel nodded in agreement, since Andy’s observation was quite true.

 

“It’s more than that?”

 

Andy slumped in her seat, if there hadn’t been a plate in her way, she’d probably have been banging her head on the table. Nigel had framed it as a question, but the flatness of his tone suggested he already knew the answer.

 

“Not much more.”

 

Thankfully, before she could squirm any further, Nigel waved the waiter over for the check. Andy tried to pay but he waved her off, muttering “expenses” as he left a generous tip. They walked back to the courthouse in silence, Andy trying not to freak out that somebody knew about her crush on Miranda. And yet, she felt five pounds lighter just for the simple fact of it being out there, somewhere beyond her own head. Nigel didn’t need to know about hand-holding and overwhelming kisses, just like Lily didn’t need to know that the Snow Queen was responsible for Andy switching teams. Andy might call it managing expectations, if she were in any fit state to do anything but wonder when in the hell her life had gotten so complicated.

 

Nigel wasn’t coming back in, and he took her by the arms for an effusive air kiss at the foot of the stairs.

 

“For God’s sake, be careful. They don’t call Miranda a shark for nothing. If she smells blood…”

 

She should have been glad that somebody cared enough to warn her, but Andy felt another surge of defensiveness rising on Miranda’s behalf. With a deliberately cool expression, she thanked Nigel for lunch, and he shook his head ever so slightly at the brush-off.

 

Andy bounded up the stairs with a newfound enthusiasm for the job ahead. She would keep filing blog entries on the paper’s website and articles that everyone in the city seemed to be reading, Miranda would be acquitted, and at some point after all of that, Andy was going to try kissing her again. It was important to have a plan, after all.

 

The next day, after Andy had filed a particularly pointed story about Rollins’ attempt to humiliate Nigel, she found herself back in the press gallery and waiting for the courtroom to fill again. The rest of the journalists were milling around in the hallway, swapping jokes that Andy didn’t have the heart to participate in, not while they were at Miranda’s expense.

 

She was lost in her notes when she became aware of someone sitting down next to her. Without looking up Andy scooted a little further along the bench to make room, but there was no acknowledgment from the newcomer. Only when a familiar perfume tickled Andy’s nose did she tear her attention from her notepad, and she looked up to find Miranda Priestly sitting next to her.

 

“I’ve been reading your work these past few weeks.”

 

As opening shots went, it was far from Miranda’s most vicious. Andy swallowed, hard, and forced herself to reply.

 

“You know the blogs have a comment section. You could always leave feedback there.”

 

Enough to make Miranda frown, but Andy noted that her lips didn’t purse.

 

“I’ll remember that. In case you were wondering, I find them, well, you have an excellent grasp of punctuation at least. They’re certainly not doing me any harm, Andréa.”

 

As the comebacks lined up on Andy’s tongue, the crowds milling outside the heavy wooden doors began to file in, and Miranda rose swiftly and elegantly to her feet before Andy could fire anything back.

 

The noise in the room rose quickly, and Andy found herself surrounded by the now familiar throng of reporters as Miranda stepped briskly toward her own spot at the defense table. A selection of glossy photos were waiting on the table for her, which was the last thing Andy got to see before the posse of attorneys converged around Miranda.

 

Moments later, everyone was on their feet for the arrival of Judge Kendall, and as the red-haired woman sat down on the bench, Andy’s pretense of focusing on anything else ended. Miranda’s silver bob, those Roman features in profile, were the beginning and end of Andy’s world for the rest of the morning and she didn’t write a word in three hours.

 

The afternoon had more of a buzz about it, since Emily was the first witness to be called after lunch. She looked thoroughly inconvenienced by even being there, her tone haughty even as she confirmed her name and job title for the benefit of judge and jury. She spoke the words ‘First Assistant’ as though it was some kind of badge of honor, and in fashion terms it really sort of was.

 

Chad Rollins started off flirtatious, but Emily stared him down with a look she’d clearly borrowed straight from Miranda and then practiced in the mirror every night. He asked her if she “liked working for Ms. Priestly,” and Emily treated the prosecutor to one of her most dismissive sneers.

 

No matter what this man thought he would achieve in his off-the-rack brown suit and lackluster tie, Emily still believed that working for Miranda imbued her with all the protection and superiority she could need. Andy shook her head at the realization, because if Emily could have applied that to her own life, grabbed a little of that borrowed self-esteem for herself, she might not have wound up with another of Miranda's cast-offs.

 

The prosecutor didn't seem to want to linger with Emily after she’d rejected his charm offensive, addressing her as Ms. Charlton and rushing through the answers she had already given in a statement. Other than confirming that she remained in Miranda's employ, nothing new emerged and the assembled ranks grew a little restless in ten minutes without any kind of revelation. She stated, for the record, that she had received a call from Katherine Hoffman and she had passed the message on to Miranda. There had been no specific instruction that Emily could think of, only that the call was to be returned ‘urgently.’

 

Emily was handed off to the defense like an unwanted scarf, the prosecutor making sure to stare down Miranda as he returned to his own table. He'd been trying the same tactic since the start of the trial, and as far as Andy could see, he didn't receive so much as a raised eyebrow in return. The poor man didn't seem to realize that Miranda was probably rearranging the Spring accessories layout in her head while the rest of the room occupied themselves with the mundane matter of her continuing freedom.

 

Sitting at an angle, Andy had to remind herself not to stare, though it was hard every time Miranda arched that elegant neck or tapped her fingers against her lips out of apparent boredom. The few times she spoke, in a murmur to either Jake or Stephanie, Andy found herself transfixed by Miranda's lips. Fantasizing about another kiss or twenty _really_ wasn't going to get Andy very far with her reporting, but damned if she just couldn't help it.

 

Andy had noted, of course, that Miranda’s daughters hadn’t been seen anywhere near the court. Reminding the press and jurors that she was a mother to (sometimes) adorable twins could only have helped her image, but Andy knew her well enough to know that cashing in on the twins had never been Miranda’s style. Were they still hiding out at their dad’s? Andy couldn’t blame them for avoiding the drama, but she knew the toll the absence had been taking on their mother.

 

Stephanie took her turn in questioning Emily, though Andy hadn't spotted any particular rhyme or reason to whether she or Jake would question a witness. They worked well as a team, it seemed, and at least three other sharply dressed attorneys sat on the bench behind the defense table. Looking more carefully, Andy noticed that their ties or blouses all seemed to complement each other. Had Miranda taken to dressing her legal team? Andy wouldn't be remotely surprised.

 

Andy found herself holding her breath as Stephanie began her questions, though felt foolish pretty quickly and tried to exhale quietly. Emily had said she'd spoken to Stephanie, had promised that things would be 'fine' and yet Andy wouldn't relax until she'd seen some proof of it. Emily's own comments to the prosecutor seemed to confirm that she had notified Miranda about Katherine's message, and Andy wasn't sure how the hell they were supposed to get around that.

 

Catching herself for thinking about being 'on' Miranda's side made Andy want to bash her head against the seats in front of her. For the sake of decorum, she resisted the temptation. Besides, even causing a scene like that probably still wouldn't get Miranda's attention, not in public.

 

Scribbling in shorthand, Andy began outlining a brief history of Emily's time as Miranda's assistant, the demands of the job and the loyalty expected. It would make for a far more human angle than simply recounting the dry facts of the case, at least.

 

Stephanie seemed to be winding down, without having said anything that seemed to make Miranda magically appear innocent. Andy wondered if she'd be arrested for contempt if she objected to that out loud, but it turned out she wouldn't need to.

 

"Ms. Charlton. You don’t mind if I call you Emily?”

 

Emily nodded in assent, the hint of a smile creeping across her lips.

 

“Where exactly were you when you received the telephone call from Ms. Hoffman?"

 

Emily hesitated, and a ripple passed through the press corps. There was a rustling of paper as most of the assembled journalists flicked back through their notes to see if that had been raised already. Andy already knew that it hadn't.

 

"I don't see what that has to do with anything."

 

Haughty, defensive and, well, Emily. Andy understood how they were going to play it and began scribbling frantically. The prosecution objected, but the judge overruled, informing Emily that she should answer the question. Emily stared thunderously at the bench, with an expression that quite clearly implied she wanted to recolonize the entire country so they would stop bothering her.

 

“I was in bed.”

 

Stephanie looked back at the defense table briefly, before facing the witness stand once more.

 

“Alone?”

 

Chad Rollins leapt to his feet with another objection on grounds of relevance, but the judge overruled him immediately. Andy chafed at the double standard, since Rollins had been so quick to cast aspersions on Nigel’s private life, as though being gay somehow made him an unreliable witness. He’d asked plenty of invasive and personal questions when it served his purposes. Or was Andy simply oversensitive at the prospect of her own lifestyle changes? She didn’t want to answer herself on that one.

 

Which was when she thought to look back at Miranda, something she’d been trying to do a little less of. Andy couldn’t miss the ramrod straight posture, she’d joked with Emily in the past that Miranda had long ago replaced her weak, human spine with a titanium rod. But the facial expression screamed silent fury, and Andy realized in that moment that Stephanie and Emily had decided not to tell Miranda of their plan.

 

_Uh oh._


	10. 6C

  
_When the company goes public  
You've got to learn to love what you own_   
** Destroyer, Hey Snow White **

"Emily, were you alone when you received this information?"

  
Stephanie's voice remained neutral, as though she were confirming any other detail. Andy couldn't bring herself to look at Emily and assess her acting abilities (although being British, she'd probably be doing something Tony-worthy) because all her attention was on the tightly coiled spring of silent rage where Miranda Priestly used to be.

  
To others who didn't know the danger signs, Miranda might just have been taking a casual interest in the people discussing sleeping arrangements, but even from halfway across the room, Andy knew. The almost imperceptible clenching of that strong jaw, the sudden tightness around Miranda's eyes, even in profile Andy still knew the tell-tale signs. If Emily dared to meet that gaze, she'd be transformed into a human popsicle on the spot, because when Miranda's rage flared up like this, her victims burned cold.

  
"No, I was not alone."

  
Forcing her attention away from Miranda, Andy took a sweeping glance at the jury, and saw the intrigue of some salacious gossip lighting up at least three faces. They didn't even know the half of it.

  
"Can I ask whose company you were in at the time?"

  
Emily simmered in a very good impression of defiance for a few long moments, though Andy already knew she would answer.

  
"Do I have to answer that?"

  
The plaintive look towards the judge was a nice touch Andy had to concede. Another turn of her head confirmed that Miranda had taken the unprecedented step of gripping the mahogany table with both hands, and those knuckles had to be very, very white by now.

  
Judge Kendall directed Emily to answer with a bored nod, clearly not expecting anything more than fashion industry tittle-tattle that would soak up more of the court's time. Emily stared at her lap for a minute before tossing her head back and affecting her most disdainful expression.

  
"Fine. If you must know, I was with my uh, boyfriend, I suppose you would call him? He's not really into labels, that way."

  
Andy was still scribbling furiously, already a few pages ahead on this script. She didn't suppose Stephen would be any quicker to apply any labels after his name got splashed across the papers in the less-than-flattering way. Stephanie still hadn't looked back at her own team, but Jake's apparently unruffled state suggested that the strategy had been pre-agreed with everyone but Miranda herself. Folding her hands behind her back, Stephanie continued her gentle line of inquiry.

  
"Does your not-boyfriend have a name, Emily?"

  
The murmurs had died down thanks to the piecemeal nature of the questioning, but Andy held her breath as she waited for the room to explode in noise.

  
"Yes. Stephen. Oh, alright. Stephen Tomlinson."

  
The tidal wave of noise swept over Andy from every direction. She heard the fragments through the din. "isn't that?" "husband" "Mr. Priestly?" until the judge was forced to gavel the room back into some semblance of order. Andy could feel the stares burning into her like unsubtle lasers from her esteemed colleagues, apparently her lack of shock had been duly noted and that was not going to go over well if she showed up for post-court drinks.

  
Stephanie continued her questioning, providing a welcome distraction. Andy couldn't bear to risk a look at Miranda, because any of the reactions she could imagine were too much to handle.

  
"Correct me if I'm wrong, Emily, but isn't that Miranda Priestly's ex-husband?"

  
Emily nodded, and was asked to say "yes" for the benefit of the court transcript. Not for the first time, Andy experienced a surge of sympathy for her former colleague. Nobody deserved to have their dirty laundry aired in public like this.

  
"In fact, as of today, has Mr. Tomlinson succeeded in obtaining a divorce from Ms. Priestly?"

  
Stumbling a little, with a flush to her cheeks that suggested this was more now than a simple performance, Emily responded meekly.

  
"Not as such. It should be any day now, obviously. But they were already estranged. I would never have--"

  
Stephanie cut Emily off with a snappish tone.

  
"So you were in the company of a man who, it should be noted, was involved in a long and drawn out divorce process with the accused? A divorce that even a cursory glance at Page Six would show has been far from amicable?"

  
Emily shrugged her shoulders before mumbling out a reply.

  
"I don't see what that has to do with anything."

  
Stephanie turned back towards the jury, still avoiding Miranda's death glare.

  
"I suppose what it has to do with is what you did after relaying Katherine Hoffman’s message to Ms. Priestly. Tell me, was Mr. Tomlinson aware of who had left the message for his wife?”

  
With reluctance, Emily confirmed that yes, he had been aware. After all she had said the woman’s name out loud in the course of leaving a voicemail for Miranda. Andy wondered if Stephanie would make the point that Miranda had never listened to a voicemail in her life. Pressed on her actions after that, Emily was compelled to list them.

  
“Well, I had my laptop with me. So I checked my email and started my daily tasks.”

  
Striding towards the witness stand, Stephanie was all business.

  
“Which tasks would those have been?”

  
Emily gave a wary look toward the defense table, and visibly paled (even further) at whichever stony glare was radiating back at her. Andy found herself wishing for any other viewpoint, because while it could be scary as hell, Miranda in her full vicious glory was certainly a sight to behold.

  
“Well the usual. Checking Miranda’s diary for the day, confirming reservations, placing orders, settling her accounts. That’s what a First Assistant _does_.”

  
“So it would be fair to say,” Stephanie began, “that Ms. Priestly entrusts you with a significant amount of access into her personal affairs.”

  
Emily agreed with the assessment, a little too readily for Andy’s liking. Oh God, Andy thought with a sickening feeling in the pit of her stomach, was Emily about to fall on her sword for Miranda? Was this the blind devotion, that Miranda had sneered about, in action? The sudden impulse to jump up and yell something-- anything--to stop the proceedings gripped Andy. Luckily, she stopped herself before making a scene, but the gnawing concern for Emily continued unabated.

  
“She trusts you with keys to her home, the safety of her children and herself, and indeed personal information like her computer passwords, is that correct?”

  
“Yes, she simply doesn’t have time to do everything herself. That’s what she pays me for.”

  
Emily had slipped back into a defensive posture, the familiar territory of standing up for Miranda and for her job as natural to her as breathing. Andy found herself wondering about the promotion that Emily had pretty much just thrown away – how would she have adjusted to not being at Miranda’s beck and call every minute of the day? Sure, Andy had survived just fine, but she had been nowhere near as invested as Emily, and even then she had gone into a weird kind of withdrawal once the drama of her exit had worn off.

  
“So it’s true, Ms. Charlton, that you have access to Ms. Priestly’s personal accounts with Chase Manhattan?”

  
The hush in the room seemed to deepen at the mention of a financial institution.

  
“Yes.”

  
Stephanie was leaning on the witness stand by that point, her body language carefully projecting calm detachment.

  
“And her investment accounts with Ziegler?”

  
To her credit, Emily looked genuinely uncomfortable at the mention of the brokerage firm. She squirmed a little in her seat, and since every eye in the room was on her the nervousness didn’t go unnoticed.

  
“That’s correct.”

  
The urge to object, to save Emily’s painfully skinny ass, was burning through Andy like a red-hot poker had replaced her spine. Before she got a chance to publicly humiliate herself, Stephanie had launched back into the questioning.

  
“On the day in question, when the sale of Wisteria stock was made, did you access Ms. Priestly’s account?”

  
“Yes.” Emily lips had progressed into a full-on pout by now.

  
“Did you make the sale?”

  
“No! I mean, I wouldn’t know where to start. I only access those accounts out of habit, so that if Miranda asks me whether certain things have been done I can answer her.”

  
Stephanie turned towards the jury with open arms, the disbelief on her face readily apparent.

  
“Really, Ms. Charlton? You just check these things? Are you sure you didn’t use your initiative to dump Ms. Priestly’s stock before she made a loss and somehow took it out on you?”

  
Gripping the edge of the witness stand, Emily leaned forward to address the accusations levelled at her.

  
“Now, you listen to me. I don’t make trades or do anything more complicated than paying Miranda’s utility bills and checking her account balances. I’m an assistant. My degree is in Art History. If you want a rundown of every item in De La Renta’s collection for the spring, or an essay on Rembrandt, I’m your girl. But what I know about finance could fit on the top of a thimble.” Emily paused for breath. “And I’d like to keep it that way. That’s what brokers and accountants are for.”

  
Andy watched the ripple of reactions across the jury at Emily’s passionate little outburst. At least some of them seemed irritated by her snotty demeanour, but there was certainly sympathy present in some expressions.

  
“One other thing, Emily.” Stephanie spoke softly as Emily collected herself a little. “Did anyone else have access to your laptop while you were logged in to Ms. Priestly’s accounts?”

  
Were someone to drop a pin anywhere on the courtroom floor, the noise of it would be deafening compared to the fresh hush that had descended on the room.

  
“Well, I did leave it there on the bed, when I went to jump in the shower. I had to hurry, or I’d be late.”

  
Andy could practically hear the clicking of mental abacus beads as the entire room made the very quick calculation. Emily’s confession led to one very obvious conclusion.

  
“Meaning Mr. Tomlinson had access to those accounts on that morning?”

  
“I’m sure he wouldn’t—“

  
“Even if what you said before is true, Emily, it still means that at _least_ two other people potentially had access to Ms. Priestly’s personal account that morning besides the account holder.” Stephanie turned on her heel, probably for dramatic effect at this point. “Tell me, if I took a show of hands in this room right now about Miranda’s account passwords, would you be the only one raising your hand?”

  
Emily glared directly at Andy as Stephanie made that point, and Andy found herself fervently wishing she’d gone for a seat further back.

  
“Probably not, no.”

  
Chad leapt to his feet with a loud ‘objection’, and the judge was forced to sustain it due to the speculation Stephanie had invited. With an insincere apology, the lawyer continued her careful weaving of the defence.

  
“Regardless, it’s clear that more than one person could have logged on to that account. “

  
“Objection!” Chad sputtered, having barely sat down from his last one.

  
“Withdrawn, your honor.” Stephanie replied.

  
“Funnily enough, the prosecution haven’t mentioned in their countless documents and accusations where the account was accessed from. Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, I ask you to question why that is. You are, after all, entitled to all the facts of this case.”

  
There was an uproar in the courtroom as Stephanie took her seat, her closing “nothing further” almost completely drowned out. With slumped shoulders, Chad confirmed that he had no further questions from the prosecution, which Andy figured made sense given that any discussion of IP addresses and account access would only weaken his case further.

  
Judge Kendall dismissed Emily with a sympathetic smile before letting fly with the gavel once more. At least half a dozen spectators were threatened with contempt charges before the room regained some semblance of order.

  
Chad sat stock still at the prosecution table, his once-promising career no doubt flashing before his eyes. He hadn’t done his due diligence, cashing in on the FBI and US Attorney’s zeal for a quick and high-profile conviction. They’d all been blinded at the thought of headlines and promotions and finally winning big in front of the watching public, which Andy couldn’t exactly blame them for. What she could get very angry about was that they’d been hoping to hide the fact that the account hadn’t been accessed by Miranda or anyone at _Runway_, relying on public opinion and some legal sleight of hand to get a high-profile conviction.

  
With the room quiet, the judge called the two lead attorneys over for a sidebar. Although the content of the conversation couldn’t be overheard, there was no mistaking the judge’s annoyance and Chad’s increasingly desperate gestures as he explained. Before long the judge called a halt and requested to see both parties in chambers.

  
Andy was no legal expert, a couple of college courses hadn’t prepared her for the intricacies of the case against Miranda. In the press it was playing out as a slam-dunk, the Wicked Witch of the Upper East Side being brought to justice at last, caught out because she thought she was above the law. From everything she’d learned, Andy knew there should be enough to get Miranda off (oh God, don’t use that phrase, she chided her subconscious) but not how it would play out.

  
Miranda had said, after all, that she wanted a ‘not guilty’ verdict delivered in court for the world to hear. Andy couldn’t help but find that too simplistic – even then people would mutter about her buying off the jury or the rich and powerful being simply untouchable. A dismissal of charges seemed like the dream outcome to Andy, but she had to admit that Miranda had a point that the muttering might be even louder if she wasn’t ‘cleared’ by a jury of her peers.

  
Which was when Andy was forced to concede Miranda might also have had a point all those weeks ago when they’d been arguing about feminism and trying to stop kissing each other: now that the accusation had been levelled, Miranda was always going to be tarnished by it. Maybe there had been some sense to the notion of not dragging Stephen into the mix, Andy concluded, feeling a little queasy.

  
It wasn’t long before the lead counsel from each side emerged from the judge’s chambers – a quiet smugness on Jake’s face while poor, foolish Chad was looking almost green. Andy might have scrounged up some pity for the young prosecutor if he hadn’t made the past month a circus of attacking people she cared about.

  
The judge called the room to order once more, and the hush fell instantly as everyone in the room strained to hear the decision. She made no attempt to hide her disdain for wasting her valuable time, not to mention everyone else’s.

  
“It would appear,” Judge Kendall began, “that the prosecution thought it wise to bring this case before the court with woefully insufficient evidence. Perhaps the desire to generate headlines outweighed their attention to criminal case procedures, but it is now clear from testimony and the prosecutor’s own admission that they have no evidence to tie this action to any one person.

  
“I trust that the US Attorney’s office will learn from this misadventure, but all that remains is for me to inform you, Ms. Priestly, that you are free to go. The charges against you in this case are dismissed due to insufficient evidence. Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, the court thanks you for your service.”

  
Miranda rose from her seat, momentarily parting the crowd around her like the noble prow of a ship. Hands landed oher regal shoulders in thundering gestures of congratulations, her most loyal and devoted entourage members making loud and public displays that they had known all along.

  
Andy couldn't help but notice that most of that group had refused to go on the record saying that they thought Miranda to be innocent. So not that loyal; not really.

  
She scrambled to the exit, determined to get a head start towards the overcrowded steps. Her strategy was a desperate one, formed on gut instinct and the hope that she would retain her privileged status with Miranda, and so Andy opted to head straight for the car. Perhaps if it was driven by someone she recognised she'd even ask to sit in the back seat and wait for Miranda there.

  
It ran the risk of not getting a quote, not getting the immediate reaction that the rest of the pack would be clamoring for, but Andy could think of nothing else. She was almost out of breath by the time she reached the gleaming silver Mercedes, though the short run hadn't tired her at all. No, her chest felt tight because of the sheer nervousness at seeing Miranda, and from the relief she had not yet found a way to express bearing down on her.

  
The doors of the courthouse soon spewed forth the surging mass of bodies of the press corps, moving as one disjointed body while reporters bounced off one another and prayed they'd keep their footing. Even across the plaza, with all the open air and din of Manhattan traffic from every side, Andy could hear the rising hubbub reaching crescendo pitch.

  
As the reporters stumbled and practically bounced their way down the stone staircase, soon the familiar posse of suits emerged in formation, a flash of silver hair in their midst confirming the more petite presence of Miranda. Even in her deadly heels, most of the group still towered over her. Andy felt a surge that started somewhere around her knees course through her body at the thought of being near Miranda in her moment of victory.

  
Would Miranda be impulsive and pull Andrea away from prying eyes for a celebratory kiss? It would be Miranda's call now, because the young guy waiting in a chauffeur's uniform was nobody Andy recognized from her Runway days. She almost considered attempting a bribe, but there wasn't generally a price for getting people to accept the wrath of the Ice Queen.

  
Tapping her foot impatiently on the sidewalk, Andy couldn’t hide her frustration at the crowd's slow progress across the paved expanse between the courthouse and the car. The camera shutters were deafening, even the advent of digital hadn't made the damn things quiet and it seemed like a thousand were pointed at Miranda as she moved at the glacial pace she so detested toward her escape. She hadn't stopped on the stairs to make a statement, which was unusual for someone who had been vindicated like that. Andy chewed at her lip as she realized it was probably in order to duck questions about Stephen, since the tabloid press at least would latch on to that fresh scandal immediately.

  
The crowd finally pushed itself around the waiting car, the driver doing well to hold the door open amidst the encroaching scrum. Andy seized her chance, slipping around to the far side and yanking the door open. Miranda didn't see her as she ducked into the back seat of the Mercedes, and Andy was relieved to see that nobody from her legal team joined her. After all cars, like elevators, were usually somewhere that Miranda preferred to be alone.

  
Not that Miranda was alone now, a fact she couldn’t help but realize as Andy landed ungracefully on the seat beside her. Miranda didn’t seem at all rattled by the insanity she’d just escaped, but her stunned silence at an unexpected guest certainly pointed to her being slightly off her game.

  
The driver opened his own door a moment later, offering a wide-mouthed stare at the second passenger, but when both he and Andy looked to Miranda for some word of protest, nothing was said. Sensing that it was more than his job was worth to question his employer, the young guy turned back to the steering wheel and pulled the car smoothly and swiftly away from the curb.

  
Andy didn't wait for the silence to become oppressive, she'd had weeks of biting her tongue, of being left with her own thoughts. Miranda hadn't answered the few calls that Andy had made, and her emails hadn't garnered so much as a read receipt, never mind a reply. So here she was, left to pray that Miranda wouldn't have a fit and push her former assistant out into moving traffic. Could be worse, Andy rationalized, late afternoon gridlock meant nothing that hit her would be going very fast. She'd learned almost two years ago to be grateful for small mercies.

  
"Congratulations, I guess?"

  
Miranda turned her head slowly, greeting Andy's asinine comment with one of her colder glares.

  
"No thanks to you, Andrea."

  
A few hours ago, Andy would have been filled with indignation at Miranda's lack of gratitude, but her moments of realization earlier had left a bitter taste in Andy's mouth. Didn't Miranda usually have a pretty good reason for insisting on things being done in a certain way? Not only had Andy overlooked that in her zeal to play the heroine (another pathetic bid for approval? She didn't want to dwell on it) but she'd roped Emily, and by extension Stephanie into her idiotic scheme.

  
"Well, the important thing is that it’s done. You’re a free woman.”

  
Miranda treated Andy to a disdainful glare over the top of her sunglasses, which she subsequently removed and popped carelessly into her Prada purse.

  
“Are you here for another exclusive, Andréa?”

  
There was challenge in the question, no mistaking that. Andy hesitated for a moment, not sure what test was being set for her. She’d become rusty at reading Miranda’s moods and implications, but ultimately, the thirst for a good story won out. Not that she wouldn’t kick herself if she’d screwed up a chance for something more… fun.

  
“Depends. Are you going to give me one?”

  
Miranda reached towards the door and for a panicked instant, Andy thought her earlier prediction about being hurled out onto Centre Street was about to come true. Instead there was a dull thud followed by the gentle creaking of a privacy screen sliding up behind the driver’s head.

  
Well. That was new.

  
Andy stared at the plain gray panel in stupefied silence as she tried to force breaths to go first in and then out. Something that was really not helped by Miranda’s hand grasping delicately around Andy’s wrist, because then it became impossible to focus on anything else, much less a trivial matter like breathing.

  
Turning her face back to Miranda left only one possible outcome that Andy could conjure up, and though she’d fantasized about it in detail for weeks and months now, the reality of it still left her a little terrified. Summoning up the last scraps of her courage, and discarding the last of her sanity, she turned towards Miranda. Andy didn’t stop to marvel in the unguarded beauty of Miranda’s face at close quarters, nor did she pause to wonder which floral notes of Miranda’s perfume were subtly filling the air between them.

  
Andy pressed her free hand tentatively against Miranda’s cheek, reasoning that if she had somehow misread or misconstrued the moment, it might be a little less embarrassing as a first move. But from the shuddering little sigh that escaped Miranda’s mouth, and the way she pressed her face into Andy’s touch, there was little doubt of her intentions.

  
“Is this how you want to celebrate, Miranda?”

  
Not giving Miranda a chance to answer, Andy captured her lips in a crushing kiss borne of weeks without contact, the first heady rush of a renewed addiction sweeping over her. Miranda kissed back like she’d be shot at dawn, as though the trial had delivered a life sentence with no chance of parole. Straddling Miranda in the back seat of a town car wasn’t Andy’s most elegant move, but too much space between them was more than she could bear.

  
Which seemed to suit Miranda just fine, judging by the way she gripped Andy’s hips and pulled her even closer. Even through the material of her pants, Andy could feel the heat of Miranda’s fingers, and the thought of where else they might go left her dizzy. Or maybe it was oxygen deprivation because breaking the knee-weakening kiss didn’t appear to be an option, not that Andy was in any state to complain.

  
Eventually they pulled apart, the harshness of their breathing almost deafening in the confined space. Miranda had a healthy flush to her face, her eyes glistening with some primal emotion that almost made Andy fear for her safety. Until Miranda grabbed Andy by the waistband of her pants and pulled her into another searing kiss, at least. By the end of that, Andy didn’t have enough firing neurons left to feel anything beyond a kind of overpowering lust.

  
She didn’t know which designer had hand-stitched Miranda’s exquisite silk top, but then Andy wasn’t remotely interested in checking the label either. With Miranda’s suit jacket pushed roughly down her arms, the unbelievably soft blue silk was the last obstruction between Andy and some of the many places her mouth was quite intent on visiting.

  
Just as she reached blindly for the hem of the top (her mouth occupied with kissing firmly against Miranda’s regal throat) the car began to slow to a stop. Andy assumed gridlock must be to blame, but Miranda’s sudden shove suggested otherwise. As Andy managed to tip herself back onto the seat instead of the floor, she thought to look out of the tinted window. She couldn’t quite believe that the sight of the Elias-Clarke building met her eyes; how the hell long had they been making out for anyway?

  
Andy waited for Miranda to bark out an instruction to the driver, either pointing out his mistake or a sudden change in plans. Because surely not even the _Snow Queen_ could stop cold from a make-out session like that? Andy herself was practically panting, both from arousal and the sudden shock of stopping. Didn’t Miranda feel this same burning need to continue?

  
Seeing Miranda pat at her mussed hair and shrug her jacket back on, Andy realized that apparently Miranda felt no such thing.

  
“You’re going back to work?”

  
It came out sounding a lot squeakier than Andy had been going for, but there was no taking it back. Miranda had already retrieved her sunglasses, readying her mask once more for the outside world. She looked at Andy as though a kiss had never passed between them, much less something that seemed well on its way to rounding all the bases in very short order.

  
“Of course. I still have a full day. The magazine doesn’t produce itself, or had you forgotten that?”

  
Of the ways that a normal person might celebrate dodging a pretty significant legal bullet, Andy would have pegged Miranda for champagne toasts (or preferably, the long overdue fucking of a former assistant) rather than a humble return to the workplace as though nothing had ever happened.

  
“What about us? This, I meant this. I kind of thought we were—“

  
“What?” Miranda snapped. “I don’t know why you persist in exploiting this little weakness of mine, but surely you didn’t think I was about to make you the Ellen to my Portia? I have _work_ to do, now that this nonsense has been dealt with.”

  
Well, first of all, Andy wanted to point out, she would definitely be the Portia in this particular equation. And second of all, what the hell was Miranda talking about?

  
“I wasn’t talking about a commitment ceremony. I thought we were going somewhere a lot more interesting that a few kisses, but hey, those pictures of emaciated models won’t publish themselves.”

  
Miranda gave that little jibe the derisive snort it deserved. She’d heard far worse criticisms of her precious _Runway_ from far more impressive sources.

  
“Honestly, Andréa, this is nothing more than an indulgence. After what you did to me today, roping Emily and Stephanie into your little crusade, what right do you think you have to me?”

  
The warm pink glow that had suffused Miranda’s complexion just moments ago had faded completely, her face restored to its usual frosty state.

  
“Well, shouldn’t we talk about that. I didn’t—“

  
Miranda cut her off by raising her hand in dismissal, a gesture that would have sent an entire floor of Elias-Clarke into a tailspin, but Andy found herself quite unmoved, although she still shut up out of habit.

  
“There is nothing to discuss, understood? Go back to your sad little newspaper, Andréa. I should never have called you in the first place. God knows better journalists owe me favors. It’s just mystifying that you would choose to act this way.”

  
Andy didn’t get her chance for a response, to point out the hypocrisy of Miranda kissing one minute and eviscerating the next. Andy knew she had done nothing wrong, and yet here she sat on warm leather seats, being punished anyway as Miranda slipped her sunglasses on and eased her way out of the car in one fluid move. Only a handful of journalists and photographers waited for her, but before Andy could observe any further, the door was slammed closed.

  
The privacy screen creaked slowly down, and the driver barked out his question without turning around, clearly suspicious of Andy’s continued presence.

  
“Where to, miss?”

  
Andy watched as Miranda disappeared through the revolving door, shaking her head at what the hell had just happened between them. Miranda and her denial, Miranda and her odd little games, or just another weird moment in their thoroughly weird relationship? Andy honestly didn’t know.

  
“I’m getting out here; but thanks anyway.”

  
Shuffling across the space where Miranda had just been sitting, Andy opened the door and tried her hardest not to fall as she stepped out. Thankfully her legs didn’t betray her, and she was able to stumble her way first to Starbucks and back to the _Mirror_ without too much incident.

  
She’d have to write something about the trial of the year, but for the first time since being summoned to Miranda’s home in the middle of the night, Andy had absolutely no idea what to say.

  
John greeted her as she trudged into the office, his edgy smile and rapid-fire questions about the trial left Andy feeling like she had in fact been greeted by machine gun fire instead. Making polite excuses, she pointed out that she had a deadline to meet, and John couldn’t get out of her way fast enough.

  
Dumping herself into her desk chair, with its ripped stitching and padding that was about as effective as sitting on a couple of tortillas, Andy exhaled the kind of sigh that came all the way from her toes. It was enough to jerk Josh out of his white-earphone isolation, shooting her a quizzical look across the in-trays that formed the only barrier between their desks.

  
“’Sup Woodward? Has your own little Watergate finally lost its shine?”

  
They might not share all their intimate secrets over Xerox paper and lukewarm coffee, but Josh knew Andy well enough to know when work was kicking her ass.

  
“Oh you know, turns out my trial of the year just got kicked out of court. And I have to write up the story of the most impossible woman I have ever met. Just another day at the office.”

  
Josh leaned back in his chair, clearly not having learned his lesson from the number of times he’d landed flat on his ass from trusting flimsy office furniture.

  
“I heard the judge threw it out. That’s good news, right?”

  
Unable to muster much more than a shrug, Andy pulled her notebook and earphones from her bag, having opted for a slightly more fancy Chloé number that had been one of Nigel’s first ‘gifts’. It might have been pretty, but it had no internal compartments and so basically all of Andy’s possessions had crumpled together in one big mess. It looked a lot like the contents of her head felt.

  
“Good news for Miranda, yeah. Now I need to write about it and I am _so_ not in the mood.”

  
Josh flashed her a sympathetic smile before popping his earphones back in. Clearly Andy’s personal drama wasn’t interesting enough to keep him from writing up some merger or other. She logged into her computer, squared her shoulders and cracked her knuckles in reluctant preparation. Swigging from the water bottle on her desk one last time, Andy stared down the blank document in all its startling bright whiteness.

  
From the instant she hit the first key, the story began writing itself; Andy just held on and hoped for the best.

  
As the deadline approached, she selected all of the text and let her finger hover over the backspace key. Instead, she saved it and emailed it straight over to Josh. Before he even had a chance to get the notification, Andy had gathered up every scrappy note on her desk and dropped them in a pile on his cluttered workspace.

  
“What the hell?”

  
Well, it was behavior worthy of Josh removing both earbuds, at least. Small victories, Andy consoled herself.

  
“I can’t write this. I can’t, I’m just so wrapped up in it all that… I’m walking away, Josh. There’s a Business feature in there somewhere, you take it. I’m done.”

  
Josh began to argue, but Andy had scooped up her bag and jacket and was already striding towards the exit. She thought she heard John call after her as she hit the stairs running, but she didn’t look back or stop running until she hit the muggy air of a New York evening.

  
The tears began to well as she rooted around in her bag for her cellphone, and there was no holding back the sobs as she pressed speed dial one and got Lily within three rings, which had to be a record.

  
“Lily, I fucked up. I had this crush, and it’s all gone wrong. And now I think I’m in love with her, and she wants nothing to do with me.”

  
Not one person on the sidewalk stopped to stare at Andy, even though she was a loud and tearful mess. She consoled herself that she wasn’t the weirdest sight most people would encounter on their way home that night. Lily, to her credit, took only a moment to gather her wits.

  
“Girl, get your ass in the nearest cab and go home. I am leaving right now and coming to your place.”

  
Andy hung up gratefully, hailing a cab just as she’d been instructed. She didn’t need to tell her best friend to bring basically all the booze, because that had been a given even back when they were buying on fake IDs.

  
The cab driver didn’t seem remotely interested in his teary passenger, and Andy was grateful for the lack of conversation. She replayed her own words to Lily over and over again as they crawled through rush hour traffic, and the realization got no less horrifying the more she thought about it.

  
In love with Miranda Priestly? They’d locked people up for less.


	11. 6D

Andy stumbled up the stairs to her apartment with legs that seemed to have turned to lead. She fumbled with the keys so long that she contemplated just shoulder-charging the flimsy piece of wood, but all the locks that Nate had fitted when he lived there reminded her of how painful a stupid idea like that would be.

She had barely finished dumping her things and washing her face when Lily began buzzing frantically on her intercom. Leaving the front door ajar, Andy had already taken up residence in full pathetic mode on the sofa when her friend came barrelling into the room.

"Oh wow, it is as bad as it sounded."

Still in her reasonably smart court clothes, Andy had settled for kicking off her low heels and crawling under the ratty throw that had graced her dorm rooms and off-campus housing before being dragged to New York. Everyone who encountered it begged Andy to put the scrappy wool out of its misery, but she had clung to it defiantly. Lily used to call her Linus in teasing, and the fact that she didn't make even one sarcastic remark on seeing Andy wrapped up in it meant that Andy had achieved the dubious distinction of being pathetic beyond mockery. Great.

Lily held up the grocery bag she was toting along with her laptop and portfolio cases, and the sight of a tequila bottle peeping out over the brown paper brim was a sight for Andy's already sore eyes. Crying in non-waterproof mascara could do that to a girl, she reasoned.

Knowing better than to push, Lily busied herself with setting up their drinks before collapsing next to Andy on the lumpy sofa.

"Spill, girl. You've obviously been holding this one in for too long if you're already at the crying in the street stage."

Andy might have been offended by Lily's assessment if it wasn't painfully accurate. Damn friends who knew her better than she knew herself.

"Well, there's this woman I'm sort of into--"

Lily nodded, unfazed since Andy's little nightclub revelation.

"Any chance you're going to tell me who it is? Someone at work? Or has Linda the soccer player moved to New York?"

With her head in her hands, Andy groaned at even the thought of confessing the name out loud. This was definitely no-taking-it-back territory and only the thought of it being real and known to another person messed with her head more than actually having feelings for Miranda in the first place.

"Miranda."

To Lily's credit, it didn't take her very long to put the pieces together. She stared at Andy open-mouthed as the realization dawned, even as she tried to act like everything was still normal and the world hadn't just about flipped itself upside down. Andy felt an awful lot of love towards her best friend in that moment.

"And yes, Lils, I do mean Miranda Priestly. I know it doesn't make sense--"

Lily burst out laughing.

"Doesn't make sense?" She managed to squeeze the words out between hoots of laughter. "Andy, you had such a case of hero worship by the time you left that damn magazine that it wouldn't have surprised me if you were screwing her every morning after getting the Starbucks. I just can’t believe you’re finally admitting it to yourself."

It was difficult, but Andy resisted the urge to get mad at Lily's reaction. Here she was, after all, in emotional pain while Lily struggled to get her giggles under control.

"Nothing happened while I worked for her."

That snapped Lily back to attention in an instant. She reached out to pat Andy on the arm, concern in her eyes.

"You're saying something's happened now? Hell, when you said crush I thought it was some one-sided thing. Isn't she, you know, kind of straight? I heard she bites the heads off guys after she sleeps with them."

Andy threw the nearest cushion at Lily before reaching for one of the brimming shot glasses on the coffee table. The tequila burned just enough as she felt it side down her throat, and she didn't answer Lily's question until she'd had a second shot.

"Oh God, where should I start?"

It turned out to be a pretty long night.

-

When dawn came screaming through Andy's living room window, she cursed herself for not pulling the curtains closed before passing out on the sofa. The complaint soon disappeared when she made the foolish mistake of moving her head. The pounding of kettledrums somewhere behind her forehead took second place to the shooting pain coursing from the base of her skull down through what had previously been a perfectly normal neck.

Jose Cuervo had a lot to answer for. Throwing an arm out blindly, there was a grunt as her hand made contact with Lily, who was still very much asleep. Figuring that Lily was old enough to fend for herself by now, Andy summoned the Herculean effort required to get off the couch and stagger into the bathroom.

Having showered the worst of the night before away, Andy padded through to put on a strong pot of coffee, downing the best part of a carton of Tropicana while she waited for the bubbling and brewing to provide her with a hot drink. As though she’d been summoned by the coffee maker, Lily came shuffling in before Andy could finish filling the two waiting mugs.

“So, it wasn’t some crazy dream?” Lily looked as though she might tip over at any moment, but her tone was serious. “You really have got the hots for the Snow Queen?”

Andy nodded, which was about as much as she could manage in her fragile state.

“Okay. So, is there any chance of breakfast now that Nate doesn’t live here?”

The thought of cooking, and all the noises and smells that came with it, made Andy feel queasy all over again.

“Go grab a shower. I’ll check my email and then we can go to the diner for hangover pancakes.”

Feeling better at the thought of imminent carbs, Andy made her way into the bedroom, laying out clean and comfortable clothes for Lily to borrow before dressing herself in jeans and a plain black sweater. With her biker boots to complete the ensemble, Andy felt ready to face the world, or at least the two block walk to the diner.

She had her laptop fired up and logged in back in the living room when she heard Lily come out of the bathroom. Andy was surprised to see well over fifty messages waiting in her inbox, something that usually only happened after vacation time. She'd cleared it out before leaving the office yesterday, but she noticed with some trepidation that at least two of the waiting emails were from her boss. Not filing about Miranda's verdict had maybe been something of a big deal.

Flicking between tabs, she scanned the _New York Times_ website and then over to the _Mirror_'s. It wasn't disloyalty, exactly, she had to keep up with the competition after all. The pictures of Miranda on each made Andy's heart beat a little faster while her stomach performed a mutinous half-somersault. She really had to get away from silver-haired celebrities and closer to butter-laden pancakes, for the sake of her sanity.

In fact, Andy was just closing the browser window when she finally registered her own name glaring back at her from the _Mirror's_ main page. It didn't make any sense, that she should be featured when... oh, crap.

Josh had filed the story she'd been too chicken to post, and he'd been enough of a gentleman to give her the credit. A less scrupulous journalist would have tweaked just enough to claim the story as their own, but Andy's eyes drank in the words of the polemic she'd battered out on her keyboard while Miranda's kisses had still been fresh in her mind.

The condemnation of the FBI, the US Attorney and the media themselves rang out from every sentence, Andy had to admit. She held up Miranda's countless achievements in place of the slander and gossip that had filled the pages for months, and lambasted the people who reveled in tearing down someone successful, simply because she had the nerve to be a woman, wealthy and powerful all at the same time.

No mention of Emily, of Stephen, or sordid affairs. In fact, Josh hadn't added anything that detracted from the tone of the piece - it stood intact as a defense of Miranda Priestly and the wrongs that had been visited upon her.

Andy was really, truly screwed.

Not in the work sense, as the emails she subsequently read confirmed. John was full of praise in his emails, basking once more in the reflected glory. Josh hadn't emailed to confess his act of friendship, but Andy had already decided to repay him in beer and the phone number of any model he wanted from her days at _Runway_. Well, after she beat the living crap out of him for ignoring her very specific request.

Lily emerged then, fully dressed in borrowed clothes and in search of the breakfast that was rightfully hers. Andy offered her the laptop with a forced smile, and Lily perched on the edge of the sofa to read it.

"I swear to God, Andy, this might be the best thing you've ever written."

The compliment was wonderful, but not at all what Andy needed to hear.

"How do you think Miranda's going to like it?"

"She won't. Which is why it wasn't supposed to be printed."

Lily closed the laptop and placed it carefully on the sofa. She thought for a moment before taking the best possible course of action.

"Let's get some food. We can worry about the rest later."

Which was a perfect plan, at least until they made it to the sidewalk outside Andy's building. In fact, Andy had barely cleared the bottom step before a small English hurricane came striding towards her at a speed that should have been impossible in spiked heels. Emily didn't care much for the laws of physics, nor did she care if she scared the everloving crap out of Andy by grabbing her arm with fingers that would put a vise to shame.

"You. Are. Coming. With. Me."

Andy protested, looking towards Lily for support. Lily had a distinctly wicked grin on her face, and Andy's heart sank at the sight of it.

"Hey, you're Emily, right?"

Emily nodded at Lily, her eyes narrowing in suspicion that a 'nobody' would know her name.

"Let me guess, Miranda sent you here to get Andy?"

"What if she did?"

With her hands on her hips and wearing an expression of undisguised loathing, Emily didn't look as scary as she obviously thought she did. Although Andy felt strangely compelled to do whatever she said, perhaps a kind of sympathy for Emily having bared her soul in court. Well, what was left of her soul, anyway.

"I'm not complaining, Posh Spice. In fact, I think Andy going to see Miranda is about the best idea anybody has had in a long time. Can I come? This is a fight I would pay to see."

Lily looked almost giddy at the thought of Andy and Miranda getting into an explosive argument, all signs of her tequila-induced suffering had evaporated in the weak fall sunshine. Andy pulled her hands up into the sleeves of her leather jacket, her body temperature seemingly having dropped way more than the weather could be responsible for. Turning first to her friend and then Emily, Andy decided to cut off the bitching and malicious glee before it could get dangerous.

“No, Lils. I’m going to go and see Miranda, and you’re going to go have the breakfast that was rightfully mine. Emily, you’re going to stop looking at me like I’m dressed in yesterday’s trash; it’s called casual wear. Then maybe I’ll come with you.”

The derisive snort from Emily was about as good as Andy was going to get, so she hugged Lily quickly and moved towards the waiting town car. Emily gave Andy a sharp push when she neglected to get in quickly enough, and it took all of Andy’s restraint not to turn around and push back. Only curiosity and her apparently compulsive need to see Miranda kept Andy in the car.

She stared out of the tinted window as the downtown traffic whizzed by. Despite the tourists traffic moved a lot better at the weekend, something that had frequently helped her out when running impossible errands for Miranda. Emily sat across from her on the backseat, pressing her skinny frame right into the corner to show that she still had no intention of getting close to her former colleague. Her Blackberry was in her hands, tapping away at a frantic pace while she resolutely ignored Andy.

The coffee she'd needed to wake her up and restore some of her humanity was now sloshing uncomfortably in her stomach, even the smooth motion of a good car with an experienced driver was enough to make feel almost car sick for the first time since childhood. Determined to focus on anything but the queasiness, Andy took the risky step of engaging with Emily.

“Sorry about your promotion, Em.”

It wasn’t the nicest way to broach the subject, but Andy wasn’t really in the mood for small talk that Emily would only deflect with sarcasm. It was almost worth the pang of guilt to watch Emily’s jaw drop ever so slightly.

“I’m sure I don’t know what on earth you’re talking about, Andrea. Maybe you don’t either, since you’re clearly suffering from either a hangover or a head injury.”

Ah, the warm embrace of Emily’s friendship. Andy was reminded once more why she hadn’t really missed it, other than in her most masochistic moments (coincidentally the times when she had also felt nostalgic for Miranda’s company).

“We’ve already covered me looking like crap, remember?” Andy rolled her eyes at having to concede the point, since she looked perfectly acceptable by any sane person’s standards. “And all I meant was that Miranda probably wasn’t too happy about you publicly discussing… well, you know … and it has to suck being stuck there as her assistant when you had the chance to escape once and for all.”

Expecting Emily to babble her way off-topic again, Andy was surprised to see a smile forming on Emily’s violently pink lips.

“Oh, did you—“ An honest-to-God giggle, which stunned Andy even further. “Did you think Miranda was going take away my promotion for helping her win the case?”

“Well, yeah,” Andy replied. “She looked pretty pissed in court.”

“I hardly think so. Once I drop your sorry self off, I can collect my reference and go home to pack.”

“Wait, what?” Andy’s head was beginning to hurt all over again. “She fired you? She’s having you deported?”

Emily rolled her eyes so hard that for a brief second Andy worried they would get stuck that way, permanently staring at too much eyeliner and iridescent green eyeshadow.

“Oh, pay attention Andrea. I took a role at _Runway UK_: Junior Editor. Which means I get to go home, something I haven’t managed in three years. I might even get a decent cup of tea while I’m there.”

Picturing Emily drinking anything other than Starbucks almost blew Andy’s mind. Before she could question Emily any further, the ringing of the Blackberry filled the car and Emily was soon chattering at a million miles an hour to someone more important than her ex-colleague. Which would be just about anyone, in Emily’s book.

Unfortunately, not-Roy was obviously very adept at getting a car quickly through Manhattan. Cutting through cross-streets and zig-zagging like he was handling a Formula One racer, he had them cruising along East 73rd way before Andy was ready for it.

Not that Emily was leaving time to adjust either; she ended her call and practically jumped out of the car. Andy was just about to tug on the handle when she realized that she did have a choice about going in there. Miranda didn’t own her, didn’t employ her and would probably forget about some minor slight from a nobody if Andy got out of the car and marched straight to the nearest subway station instead. That, in fact, would be the sane thing to do.

But for the same reason that she had so willingly come along with the bossy Emily and surrendered her chance of pancakes, Andy knew she would walk up those steps and confront the woman who had been driving her insane. Hell, maybe letting Miranda get in a few more verbal blows would cure Andy of these pointless feelings once and for all. If she ignored the butterflies in her stomach, that reason almost sounded plausible.

To Andy’s dismay, Emily accompanied her only as far as the first of the many tables with flowers. A cream-colored envelope was quickly slipped into Emily’s Kate Spade purse, and when she turned to leave so quickly, Andy panicked and grabbed her former colleague’s arm.

“Don’t you have to—“

“Come in there? With you?” Emily snorted. “You’ve made your own bed Andrea, and now you’ll have to lie in it.”

Wresting herself free from Andy’s desperate clutches, Emily made for the front door. Realizing that she was facing her doom, Andy made one last ditch at building up some good karma.

“Good luck Em, with everything.”

Emily nodded stiffly, her hand already on the door handle. Her lips twitched slightly, as though a smile might escape despite her best efforts.

“Yes, well. I have a lot to do.”

With that, Andy’s last line of defense walked out of the door and on with her new life. It was like the _Runway_equivalent of the Witness Protection program, Andy supposed, while kicking herself for not asking Emily more about what had happened after court, particularly with Stephen.

As the last fleeting strains of freedom beckoned to her, Andy was short-circuited by the sound of her name floating down the hallway towards her.

“Andréa?”

Her feet were set in motion before she could stop herself, a Pavlovian response to Miranda’s voice that she had yet to grow out of.

She found Miranda in the white expanse of the kitchen, which seemed like the domestic equivalent of Miranda’s office, with the track lighting and artfully arranged decorations in the sea of brightness. For her part, Miranda looked oddly at home in the one room Andy had never been able to imagine her in. Leaning against the island in the middle of the room, Miranda didn’t bother to look around at Andy’s entrance, but there was no mistaking the sight of multiple copies of the _Mirror_ behind her, between the fruit bowl and a half-full mug of coffee.

With a burst of bravado, Andy sat on one of the tall stools opposite Miranda’s back and reached for an apple from the bowl. Only when she took an exaggerated, crunching bite from it did Miranda deign to turn around, almost causing Andy to choke on her mouthful. Miranda’s expression was impossible to read, Andy noted with some dismay. She concentrated on chewing while silently praying for Miranda to break the silence. Only then would she have a chance of gauging the mood.

“As love letters go, you’re no Lord Byron.”

It was really lucky that Andy had already swallowed her bite of the apple, because she really would have choked otherwise. Unless her eyes were deceiving her, she thought that might actually have been the flicker of a smile tugging at the corners of Miranda’s mouth.

“You’re uh,” Andy floundered, words deserting her in the glare of Miranda’s full attention. “You’re not mad?”

“Did you know I never intended to see you again after yesterday? When I left you in the car?”

Answering a question with questions: Miranda at her most impossible. Andy _really_ had to get her head examined for having feelings for this woman.

“I would never have guessed, you know, from the cruel dismissal and the fact that you never looked back.”

Miranda’s eyes narrowed at the sarcasm; a little hypocrisy on her part given that it was essentially her second language, just edging out French. For a moment, Andy was back in the unpleasant limbo of wondering whether she’d blown it every time she spoke. But Miranda traced a finger down the edge of Andy’s article, apparently distracted by the newsprint, and Andy allowed herself to exhale.

“I still don’t know why I called you, Andréa.”

As the protest formed on Andy’s tongue, that Miranda had not in fact called her, choosing instead to send Emily to collect Andy like a bunch of Calvin Klein skirts, the actual meaning of Miranda’s words dawned on her. She meant calling Andy in the first place, those few endless months ago.

“Maybe because I’m a good journalist?” Miranda’s response was an infuriating head tilt, as though that reason stretched the very boundaries of possibility. Andy ploughed on before she could get angry. “Or maybe you just missed me?”

The flush on Miranda’s cheeks suggested that Andy had struck a little closer to home, and she was holding her breath as she waited for a response.

“Stranger things have happened, I suppose,” Miranda conceded without any particular grace.

Andy had a thousand other questions still to ask, ranging from Miranda’s job security to the current location of the twins. She wanted an honest answer about how Miranda felt about the charges being thrown out, not to mention the potentially explosive subject of Emily, Stephen and the courtroom revelations that were currently splashed across the Saturday papers and hundreds of blogs. Though the journalist in her vied for control of the thought processes, it stood no chance in the face of Miranda standing there, looking good enough to eat in a dark blue wrap dress that even Andy the Philistine recognized as DvF.

Slipping off the stool, Andy made her way around the kitchen island with cautious steps. Miranda didn’t flinch, watching with a guarded expression once Andy started moving. When there was no more than a foot between them, Andy asked the one question that really couldn’t wait any longer.

“Why am I here, Miranda?”

Folding the newspaper in half, Miranda looked away as she answered.

“That’s a bit philosophical for a Saturday morning, isn’t it?”

Sighing in frustration, Andy leaned in a little closer. Repeating her question, she was rewarded by Miranda turning to face her. By way of an answer, Miranda reached out with one slightly trembling hand, which she placed on Andy’s upper chest, following the v-neck line of her sweater as the hand came to rest. Whether she intended to push Andy away, or simply buy herself a further moment to think, was unclear but Andy felt ready to explode from the simple contact. Miranda’s surprisingly warm hand, that looked like porcelain but had none of the expected coolness, felt perfectly at home even through the soft wool of Andy’s sweater.

“Why am I here?” Andy whispered, not daring to raise her voice for fear of disrupting whatever had compelled Miranda to touch her.

“I don’t know,” Miranda replied. Andy had no choice but to believe her, since the confusion on her face seemed completely genuine.

“To say…thank you?” The words almost choked her in their unfamiliarity, and Andy could recall only one other time when Miranda had allowed those words to fall from her lips, mouthed across a crowded ballroom.

“For writing that article?”

Miranda bit down lightly on her bottom lip, as though forcing herself to concentrate. She met Andy’s gaze with a tentative one of her own. She still hadn’t removed her hand, and Andy was beginning to feel almost dizzy with the excitement of it. Her heart was beating so hard that she had no doubt Miranda could feel every rapid beat under her palm.

“Yes. Well, apart from your collapse into cliché around paragraph seven.” The jab was pure Miranda, tempered only by the warmth in her voice. “And the fact that you make me out to be some kind of _victim_ for a large part of it.” Not quite so warm now, since that idea clearly irritated Miranda.

“Those were the nicest things anyone has said about me in years.”

That made it Andy’s turn to tip her head slightly to one side, unable to hide her disbelief.

“You’re kidding me, right?” Miranda simply stared in return. “You have an entire building kissing your ass on an hourly basis, not to mention practically every designer and photographer.”

“Unlike them, you actually seemed sincere.”

Andy nodded; a concession on her part. She had certainly meant every word she’d written. But before she could explain exactly that, Miranda made to remove her hand from its comfortable location on Andy’s chest. Without time to think, Andy simply reacted, grasping gently but firmly at Miranda’s wrist. Miranda gasped softly at the unexpected touch, but relaxed into it, allowing Andy to pull her closer.

Well, here they were all over again. Andy decided to stop thinking, stop asking for explanations that never came, and just do what the hell she felt like doing.

Which started, at least, with kissing Miranda. No need for tentative now, not when they’d already gotten so good at it. Andy summoned up every scrap of lust and frustration and tried to express them through her lips, relentless in their pursuit of Miranda’s. Andy knew by now that Miranda might be a little reticent to let her tongue tangle with Andy’s own, but a surefire way to achieve just that result was to begin sucking on Miranda’s lower lip. That made Miranda moan somewhere deep in her throat, a sound that caused Andy’s knees to wobble just slightly. When she released Miranda’s lip, they resumed a more mutual kind of kiss, one where Miranda’s warm, wet tongue began to explore Andy’s mouth in earnest.

Guiding Miranda, one hand still on her wrist while the other sought out the perfect curve of her hip, Andy backed her up against the breakfast table. Less passive now, Miranda freed her arm from Andy’s grip only to wind it around the younger woman’s neck and pull her flush against Miranda’s apparently very responsive body. Dizzy from the slight lack of oxygen and the heady feeling of touching and kissing _Miranda_, Andy was briefly worried about making a complete idiot of herself. Miranda apparently had a similar thought.

“Really?” She breathed between kisses. “In the kitchen, Andréa?”

Which succeeded in achieving two things: first, clearing Andy’s head with the prospect of a challenge she absolutely wouldn’t allow herself to fail; and secondly, making Andy very determined to show Miranda that the kitchen was good for a lot more than making coffee.

“Yes, really,” she replied. Before Miranda could mock or protest any further, Andy was kissing her soundly, cupping her ass through the sheer blue material of Miranda’s dress. Which was fine with Miranda, if the way she tilted her hips towards Andy was any indication. Andy upped the ante further by seeking out the simple knot that held Miranda’s wraparound dress together, her eager fingers undoing it in seconds.

As the material began to give way, Andy was relieved that Miranda made no move to stop her, although she might well have been distracted by the trail of kisses that Andy was now pressing against her neck. Andy let her tongue swipe over Miranda’s pulse point, pleased with how rapidly it was beating. Any lingering doubts about Miranda being into this had finally evaporated, and Andy took that as her cue to show Miranda exactly what she’d almost missed out on.

Daring to pull away for a moment, Andy sighed happily at the sight she’d created. Miranda, with an enticing flush on her cheeks, her dress fallen open to reveal dark blue lingerie that complemented the outfit to perfection. _Of freakin’ course_ Miranda Priestly coordinated down to the last detail for a morning of reading the newspaper in her own home. Andy couldn’t even pretend to be surprised, but she was sure as hell enjoying the view. Not that she dared provoke Miranda’s legendary impatience, for fear of never finishing what they’d started weeks ago.

Andy's fingers sought out the dark blue lace over Miranda's breasts, which caused Miranda to drop her head back in approval, there was no disguising the moan that escaped her lips. Forcing herself to focus, Andy revelled in the soft scratch of the expensive material under her fingertips, it proved a very flimsy barrier to the warmth and softness of Miranda's skin beneath. If this was what years of expensive products and a beauty regime that made the army look slack on discipline earned, then Andy was already sure it had been worth every penny.

"You want this?" It was a miracle Andy could still form words, but she had to be sure before losing herself completely. Quite sure that she'd cry if Miranda said no, she held her breath to await the response. Miranda's head snapped forward, exasperation apparent on her face.

"I'm not in the habit," she breathed, "of letting people undress me against my will. Get on with it."

Well, if nothing else, Andy remembered how to follow a direct order. Letting her hands roam freely over Miranda's exposed skin, she leaned in to claim another kiss, letting passion overwhelm finesse for the first time. Miranda certainly wasn't complaining, giving the fervour with which she kissed back, tangling her hands in Andy's now loose hair as she did. A simple ponytail was no match for a determined Miranda, after all.

With only the briefest of fumbles, Andy let her hands skim across the smooth lines of Miranda's back, seeking out the clasp of her bra which thankfully cooperated on the first attempt. The sigh of relief was quiet, but Andy smothered it by letting her mouth roam over the newly freed breasts that she'd been fantasizing about for too long. Teasing at first with soft presses from her lips, Andy simply breathed across one nipple, enough to harden it instantly. Following her initial tease with intermittent flickers of her tongue, there was no mistaking the hum of approval from Miranda. She was breathing heavier now, and Andy was still pretty impressed that she was the one to have this effect on her permanently unflappable former boss.

Not that there was time to dwell on her achievement, not when there was so much still to explore, to taste, to enjoy. Feeling bold once more, Andy tugged at Miranda's panties while sucking on her other nipple, Hoping she still had a decent amount of upper body strength, Andy lifted Miranda onto the breakfast table, ignoring the squeak of protest as Miranda's frankly exquisite ass made contact with the smooth white surface.

With her dress hanging from her shoulders, her bra shoved out of the way and her panties somewhere on the floor, Miranda was a sight for Andy's sore eyes. Seeing Miranda lose control in any way felt like some kind of victory, and the thought of taking it even further thrilled Andy in a way that made her throb between her legs.

Stroking her hands along Miranda’s thighs, Andy discovered it didn’t take much persuasion to part them. With a cursory brushing of her fingertips, Andy gasped aloud at how wet Miranda already was.

“Last chance to back out; I don’t want any more headgames.”

“You can stop any time you want, Andréa,” Miranda breathed, the tilting of her hips towards Andy’s touch betraying her outward coolness. “But I would seriously advise against it.”

Andy didn’t need to be told twice, so without stopping to remove any of her own clothing, she dropped to her knees in front of Miranda. Stroking her thumbs along Miranda’s silky inner thighs (Andy couldn’t decide if the lack of stockings was a convenience or a blow to her fantasies, but she didn’t dwell on it). Andy was thrilled at the twitch of desperation the simple act provoked from Miranda. Trying to cover her own excitement, Andy let her mouth follow the path of her fingers, pressing soft and teasing kisses closer and closer to Miranda’s center. Knowing better than to tease indefinitely, Andy summoned her courage and went for it.

The first casual swipe of Andy’s tongue drew a whispered ‘fuck’ from Miranda that might officially have been the biggest turn on to date. Not to mention that Miranda was already scandalously wet, which had Andy feeling pretty damn confident, thank you. Miranda tasted delicious, rich and just slightly bitter in a way that had Andy eager to keep running her tongue over every inch of her. As Andy’s tongue explored, lapping gently then massaging with a pulsing motion, Miranda was quickly losing her coherence. She squirmed under the pleasant assault of Andy’s mouth, in one moment pulling away before thrusting her hips forward again.

Being around Miranda was never easy, but it turned out that in one very important regard, she had almost simple tastes. Adding fingers, two of which slipped very easily inside Miranda, turned out to be a popular decision, if the _oh, oh, oh_ that Miranda began to chant as some kind of mantra was any indication.

Andy had intended to take it slow, to tease and torment and make Miranda beg, but it turned out that she didn’t quite have the willpower. Finally being able to touch Miranda this way, to draw those whimpers and muttered curse words from her was too addictive and Andy became almost relentless in her attentions. Having flicked rhythmically at Miranda’s clit, Andy could feel the tension build under her tongue. As Miranda began to clamp down around her gently thrusting fingers, Andy couldn’t stop herself from sucking hard on Miranda’s clit. It turned out to be _exactly_ what Miranda needed, if the gasping cry and sudden surge of wetness were any indication.

Indeed, when Andy pulled back and looked up at the woman who’d been driving her crazy for longer than she cared to admit, she felt really quite proud of herself. Miranda was definitely disheveled, her previously immaculate hair falling around her face in wild strands. The flush across her chest was a deep pink that Andy found a much more appealing shade than any dress she’d ever seen at _Runway_. God, if she wasn’t already on the verge of coming without being touched, the sight of a well-fucked Miranda was certainly getting her there.

Wiping her chin with the back of her hand, Andy staggered back to standing, Miranda’s stone kitchen floor having been less than kind to her knees. She was surprised but pleased when Miranda’s first conscious act was to draw Andy into a slow but determined kiss, tasting herself on Andy’s tongue as their mouths met. It was as close as Andy had gotten to bliss in Miranda’s presence, at least until Miranda decided to speak.

“What the hell are you _wearing_?”

Andy stepped backwards, more wounded by Miranda’s jibe than she wanted to admit. Seconds ago, Miranda had been recovering from a pretty impressive orgasm, and now she was criticizing Andy’s wardrobe choices? She hadn’t seemed to mind the clothes when her perfectly manicured nails had been threatening to tear through the leather of Andy’s jacket.

“God! Nothing changes with you, does it?”

Miranda seemed stunned by Andy’s snappish reply. It didn’t take long for a pout to form on her lips.

“Oh for God’s sake… I was suggesting that you take your clothes off! Am I speaking another language or something?”

Obtuse, poorly explained and enough to drive an otherwise calm person towards madness: yeah, more classic Miranda. Andy let her shoulders drop in relief, the indignation draining from her as a fresh surge of arousal replaced it. Miranda looked sexy as hell, just fucked on her pristine kitchen table. The flush on her cheeks, the sparkle in her eyes, made her look younger, more alive than Andy had ever seen her before. It was nothing short of breathtaking.

Not that Miranda let Andy stare for too long. With agility, but not much of her trademark grace, Miranda lowered herself back onto the floor. Her shoes were kicked off in an instant, and when she approached Andy there was no mistaking the predatory gleam in her eyes.

Andy swallowed, hard.

Her jacket was dispatched with before they cleared the kitchen door, and her sweater was surrendered somewhere near the foot of the staircase. Andy took a brief second to hope that none of the house’s other occupants were expected home soon, before deciding she didn’t actually give a damn. Especially since the next step in Miranda’s quest to kiss-stroke-push Andy towards somewhere more comfortable—presumably a bedroom—was to begin unfastening Andy’s bra. Slow and steady had nothing on Miranda with a goal in mind, and Andy was just happy to go along for the ride.

And damn, what a ride it was, Andy thought.

Her jeans, non-designer but easily shucked off, were discarded somewhere on the second floor landing, after a brief but efficient wrestling match with her heavy boots. Attempting to hold her own, Andy got Miranda’s dress the rest of the way off, as well as her unhooked bra. This left her hands free to roam over every inch of the now fully-naked Miranda that she could reach, amidst the distraction of Miranda’s searing kisses.

One more set of stairs, with Andy’s underwear the last casualty of their fumbling, stumbling trip upwards, and they were half-falling through the door of Miranda’s bedroom. As attracted to Miranda as Andy was, and although she was turned on to the point of practically sobbing her need, the room was impressive enough to provide a quick distraction. The space alone was mind-blowing, lit as beautifully as any of _Runway’s_ shoots, with rich fabrics draped everywhere that Andy found herself itching to touch.

She got her wish in short order, as Miranda, breathing heavily, led her towards the luxurious sheets of the bed. Andy had no measuring tape to verify, but she was willing to bet that this bed was bigger than her entire dorm room at Northwestern. Then Miranda’s hands were cupping Andy’s breasts and she stopped caring about the furnishings altogether.

A little more trial and error this time, because for once Miranda’s enthusiasm seemed to overrule her natural coolness. She confessed, in a whisper, “I’ve never done this before,” and the vague wave of her hand over Andy’s naked body served as explanation enough. Not knowing quite how to reassure Miranda, Andy settled for a deep kiss that she hoped would show Miranda that for once complete perfection wasn’t being demanded.

Andy couldn’t help the moans of excitement when Miranda got a little bit rough, and well, Miranda didn’t need telling twice. In fact, things got close to perfect pretty quickly, Andy realised.

As Miranda alternated between teeth and tongue to ravish Andy’s very erect nipples, she let her hand trail across Andy’s abdomen. Unable to hide her desperation, Andy found herself arching up to encourage Miranda’s hand lower. Worried about coming at the first contact on her clit, Andy tried to calm herself a little, but it was a lost cause as soon as Miranda’s fingertips coasted over the considerable wetness between Andy’s legs.

With curses that put her Catholic school education to shame, Andy felt the wave of climax begin to build in earnest. Miranda’s hand was relentless, stroking with purpose before plunging two and then three fingers inside. Andy had expected finesse, but was enjoying the rougher, more passionate actions way, way more. Miranda began muttering between licks and bites and kisses, just words of encouragement at first, then Andy’s name falling from her lips as though it were something special, which caused a thrill that shot right along Andy’s spine. Eventually, over her own ragged breathing, Andy heard the instruction she could really no longer ignore.

“Come for me, Andréa. Please, please come for me.”

Wow. Between the begging and the thrusting and the _holy damn her mouth when she does that_ sensations, Andy had very little choice in the matter. She felt her body tense in the most delicious way before her vision got a little bright around the edges and she was falling back against the sheets as Miranda’s fingers gradually slowed inside her. Twitching slightly, still clenching around the hand that had sent her hurtling over the edge, Andy briefly regained some sense and worried that she might have injured Miranda with the force of her reaction.

But hell, it would have been worth it. She was altogether too fucking happy to feel anything like guilt in that moment. Miranda didn’t seem anything but content, judging by the way that she withdrew her fingers and slowly licked them, letting her eyes flutter closed as she savored the taste. If Andy had any lingering doubts about how mutual the attraction between them was, those doubts were obliterated once and for all in those moments.

“You liar!” Andy gasped as soon as she could muster words again.

“Excuse me?” Miranda propped herself up on one elbow, eyebrows raised to a frankly dangerous height. Undeterred, Andy managed to stare her down.

“Never been with a woman before, my ass.” Andy muttered, confident in her accusation.

Miranda drew herself up into a sitting position with her customary grace. Andy was momentarily distracted from her train of thought at the sight of Miranda stretching, and the almost hypnotic lift of her breasts as she continued to breathe heavily.

“Why would I lie about that? I haven’t.” Miranda’s protest seemed sincere, Andy noted, but no way was that the first time she’d fucked another woman. Nobody was that good first time, so lacking in nerves or hesitation… unless, well, Miranda could be pretty damn sure of herself. Covering her eyes with a groan, Andy slumped back against the pillows in defeat.

“Trust you to be a natural on the first attempt.”

Miranda smiled, one of her rare genuine smiles that reached her eyes and made them sparkle in a way that Harry Winston could only dream of.

“I do have a reputation for excellence.”

Andy found herself able to move again, and celebrated by rolling towards Miranda for another kiss.

“We still have a lot to talk about,” Andy ventured when she could bear to break the contact.

Miranda rolled her eyes, and made absolutely no attempt to disguise it. Running a hand through her hair, restoring some semblance of order to it, she sighed heavily before pulling a silk sheet over their cooling, naked bodies.

“And, I would imagine, plenty of time to talk about it.”

Forming a protest, Andy opened her mouth to speak but was interrupted by Miranda continuing.

“We will. Just, can we _enjoy_ this for now? I promise you can interrogate me to your heart’s content later. Preferably tomorrow.”

That was a pretty big concession on Miranda’s part, and Andy decided to pick her battles for once. After all, she had a gorgeous woman lying next to her who had suggested they _not talk_ for at least a day. Andy had made some idiotic decisions in her life, like throwing company property into a fountain for example, but she knew better than to throw away the best Saturday she could think of.

“You know, Miranda, I’m really pleased the charges were dropped. Obviously, I’m glad.” Andy hesitated as Miranda shifted position, turning her head to look at her. “But it seriously screwed up my conjugal visit fantasy.”

Andy didn’t get a chance to affect a fake pout before one of the massive pillows came flying towards her head. She laughed uproariously, the joy of the past few hours spilling out as she collapsed once more onto the ridiculously soft sheets. Miranda propped herself up on her elbows, her eyes betraying her own amusement.

“We’ll just have to improvise, won’t we?”

And suddenly Andy didn’t feel much like laughing any more, not when Miranda was looking at her with such a clear invitation for an encore.

Sometimes, doing the right thing really did pay off.


End file.
